I'he My^ery 



Frances Farrington 


BY 

Elizabeth Banks 

Author of 

^*The Autobiography of a i^owapaper Girl” 


New York 
1909 




The My^ery 
of 

Frances Farrington 


BY 

Elizabeth Banks 

Author of 

“ The Autobiography of a Newspaper Girl ” 




New York 
1909 






\ 






LIBRARY of CONGRESS 'V r ■. 

Tv/o CoDies Received ' 

AIAR n 1909 

Copyriifnt Entry 
cuss Om XXc. No, 


Copyrighted 1909 
by 

Elizabeth Banks 


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V 


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f 








J- 





V 


CHAPTER I 

TO INTRODUCE MISS ALLISON 

Being a --humourist, Margaret Allison 
took her work very seriously. 

The fact that she was about the only 
person who seemed to do so appealed for- 
eibly to her sense of humour, and, some- 
times over the density of the editors who 
printed her stories and the public who 
read them, she laughed quietly up her 
sleeve — somewhere in the vicinity of her 
shoulder, for she always wore elbow 
sleeves. She found them convenient, since 
she did all her work with a typewriter, 
and, besides, she adored neatness and des- 
pised home-made paper cuffs, having a 
well-shaped forearm. 

She had other attractions of a personal 
sort, and even the least observant and 
most critical of her acquaintances were 
wont to speak of her as a handsome, well- 
groomed girl of medium height. She dis- 
liked Bohemianism and the look that so 
often comes of intellectuality, frankly ad- 
mitting that she felt more real pleasure at 
a compliment to her personal appearance 
than one that took note of what she term- 
ed her “giant intellect.” 

She was somewhat of an actress, and 
her skill as a linguist came little short 
of genius. During her several trips abroad 
she had passed in Paris as a real Paris- 
ienne, without in the least trying to do 
so — indeed unconsciously, until a French 
cabinet minister, whom she met at an em- 
bassy ball, asked her in a low, confiden-' 
tial tone, what she thought of “these 
Americans.” In Madrid she donned a man- 
tilla, and spoke Spanish and shrugged her 
shoulders with such native fluency that 
many of her own country-people whom 
she met there addressed her as “Senor- 
ita;” and when she visited Rome she pass- 
ed among certain Italians, who, perhaps, 
were not too observant, as a young patri- 
cian woman of their own race. 

In London no bus-driver, suspecting her 
nationality, invited her to sit beside him 
in the place of honour at his jerky right 
elbow, no cabby tried to exact from her a 
double fare for the distance between Char- 
ing Cross and Oxford Circle. Quietly and 
all unobserved, except for her handsome 
face and her graceful carriage, she toured 
about for a year among the English pro- 
vinces, standing even in the garden of 
Ann Hathaway’s cottage without exciting 
among her own country-people or the Eng- 
lish themselves a suspicion of her nation- 
ality. Fitly to describe her, one must 
have called her Cosmopolite. 

Returning from her third trip to Eng- 
land and the Continent, she wrote an in- 
ternational farce, a society skit, which was 
immediately produced by an actor-manager. 
The play ran into the hundreds of nights 
in New York before it went on the road, 
and her royalties rose into the thousands. 
With the proceeds she poured favours up- 
on her needy and greedy distant rela- 
tions and various other beneficiaries, and 
she moved into an expensive apartment 
hotel, where she had a shower-bath and a 
private drawing-room with old French 
prints on the green cartridge w^alls, and 


she engaged a visiting-maid to run ribbons 
in her lingerie after laundering, and she 
got a Chinchilla pillow muff. 

And still she was not happy, for she 
wanted to do the big things in literature, 
rather than the light ones; she longed 
to turn people’s laughter to tears, their 
rejoicings to wailings, and their skipping 
polkas into melancholy minuets. 

Of course, nobody suspected her state of 
mind, unless she herself told them of 
what they would have considered her de- 
fection from her true self and her natural 
calling. Had she not laughing eyes and a 
merry way with her? Did not people, both 
men and women, go to her when they were 
in trouble and wished to be cheered up, 
also to borrow money? At such times she 
would endeavour to point out to them the 
compensations in their lot, and then turn- 
ing to her cheque-book, she would say, 
“You’ll let me have it hack by the first, 
won’t you?” 

They always said they would, but they 
never did. She used to declare it was a 
bad plan to lend your friends money, be- 
cause when they could not pay you back 
they began to avoid you and ended by hat- 
ing you. Everybody laughed when she said 
it, but nobody noted the little catch in 
her voice. Had they noted it, they would 
have been not merely surprised, but puz- 
zled beyond all solving. 

She was the sort of woman who, against 
her will, even against her prohibition, 
gained the confidences of others while of- 
fering none of her own. Women told her 
of their failures, their unhappy homes, 
their unrequited loves, their dearest sins, 
and. as she spoke soft words to them, con- 
soling them, they never guessed that she 
herself might be feeling wounds for which 
she knew no healing balm. 

Though she had laughing eyes, h£r face 
in repose was strangely sad. “Let me 
paint you!” said an English artist, who 
had met her at a salon in London. 

“As what?” she had asked half-jestingly. 

“As the woman of the saddest face I 
have ever seen!” he replied. And he paint- 
ed her, and underneath the portrait which 
hung now in a Bond Street gallery, he had 
placed the title. “The Woman and Her 
Mask.” When people passed it by hastily, 
they invariably returned to take a second 
and longer look at it, and they would go 
away to ponder upon the face and upon the 
title. 

Before the writing of the international 
farce Margaret Allison’s work was known 
upon the stage and was successful, and it 
was the experience she had in getting 
colour for one of the characters in an ear- 
lier comedy that helped to deepen the sad- 
ness which the observant artist had seen 
back of the smile in her eyes. Her play 
was, in part, a take-off upon circumstantial 
evidence as a factor in the condemnation 
of an innocent man, and in her search foi 
realism she had spent many weeks attend- 
ing trials at the various law courts. In 
the criminal branch she had seen a woman 
condemned to long imprisonment for a 
crime which she, Margaret Allison, felt 
sure she had never committed, though all 
the circumstantial evidence pointed unmis- 

3 


takabiy to the woman s guilt. She was 
about to litt her voice in protest against 
the juQge’s sentence, when suddenly she 
felt the futility of such an outbreak in o 
court-room. 

Then she had gone away tearless, but 
witn beating heart. She was not a “weepy” 
woman, ana perhaps it was their unshed 
tears that gave her eyes their wondrous 
brightness. 

It was after this experience that she be- 
gan to pay frequent visits to the law 
courts, and often made the round of the 
Tombs and other prisons, finding in such 
places a wealth of material for stories and 
articles. She became known as an uncom- 
promising opponent of circumstantial evi- 
dence and a friend of convicts and ex-con- 
victs. Many a poor soul, turned adrift 
from prison; was met by the outer door by 
Margaret Allison, ready to lend or give him 
money and conduct him to a place of em- 
ployment. Often within a few months she 
would hear of such proteges as having 
been again convicted and returned to pris- 
on, and then she would say, ‘‘Well, what 
wonder? People did not trust them 
enough!” 

One of her proteges was Annette Le- 
moyne, for whom she had secured a place 
as chambermaid at the Hotel Illington, 
asking especially that she might be assign- 
ed to the floor where her own suite of 
rooms was situated. Only Carolyn Blaine, 
Margaret’s closest and only intimate wo- 
man friend, knew that Annette had been in 
prison for stealing a former mistress’s 
ring. Carolyn had insisted that the mana- 
ger and the housekeeper should be warned 
of Annette’s antecedents. 

‘‘No,” said Margaret; ‘‘they would be so 
narrow that they would not give her a 
trial if I told them.” And the little maid’s 
secret was kept. 

Nor was Annette the only one closely 
connected wtih Margaret’s daily life whose 
antecedents could have been described as 
“shady.” There was Captain Jinks, her 
French poodle dog. beloved friend and de- 
voted companion, of history most interest- 
ing and unique. 

In his very early years Captain Jinks’ 
master was one Daniel Johnson, a member 
of a travelling show, who had trained him 
as a puppy in circus tricks, a training all 
in kindness, for Daniel loved him. He had 
named him Captain Jinks and had taught 
him to dance and illustrate the popular 
song of that name at the circus. The poodle 
jumped through hoops; played the piano; 
touched his top-knot with his fore-paw 
when told to salute the ladies; said his 
prayers; played “dead”; barked a low bass 
or a high tenor at command; and always 
for his performances he was rewarded with 
chocolate creams, of which he became in- 
ordinately fond. 

At the circus he had always pleased his 
audience best with a game called “pick- 
pocket,” in which he would crawl slowly 
after the circus men, deftly taking from 
their pockets such things as watches, hand- 
kerchiefs, purses, and sometimes he would 
pick the pockets of ladies in the audience 
by their special request, receiving choco- 
late creams as reward. He was taught to 
restore all such things to their owners at 
a nod from Daniel. But there came a day 
when Daniel failed to nod for the restoring 
of a roll of greenbacks which Captain 
Jinks had removed ever so stealthily from 


the pocket of the owner of the circus, with 
the result that he and his master were dis- 
missed by the infuriated proprietor with 
threats of imprisonment for Daniel if he 
ever showed up again. 

Then the two had taken a long journey 
across country roads to New York, where 
Captain Jinks was taught a new trick — 
to poke his nose into the muffs of ladies 
who walked on the crowded shopping 
streets. Then “loot” began to be plentiful, 
and Captain Jinks and his master thrived 
upon the proceeds of their united endeavor. 

There had come a cold winter day when 
somebody in the crowd had shoved Captain 
Jinks fairly against Margaret Allison, just 
as he had extracted a purse from her stun- 
ning Chinchilla muff. Looking up quickly 
she saw the strange dog carrying the purse 
to a strange man, as had also a policeman, 
who placed his hand on Daniel Johnson’s 
shoulder in token of arrest. Hastening 
over to the policeman, Margaret said, “You 
have made a mistake! I am this man’s 
friend, and why should I not give my purse 
to the dog to carry to him?” all the while 
looking curiously into the shifting eyes of 
Daniel Johnson. Then, laughing nervous- 
ly, Margaret extended her hand to the 
young man. “I’ll take it back, now,” she 
said, closing her Angers over the purse. 
“Perhaps you don’t remember that I have 
moved to the Hotel Illington. Come around 
and see me to-night and be sure to bring 
the dog. Yes, I am still Miss Allison!” 

With that she had vanished in the crowd, 
and that night Daniel Johnson stood in 
her doorway, saying, “I ain’t worth it, 
lady, the lie you told to save me, but I’m 
going to be worth it out in New Zealand, 
so help me God! But I can’t take my pal 
along, and, besides, the cunning little devil 
is a continual temptation to me to let him 
pick pockets, so I ask you to take him to 
have and to hold for ever. I love him bet- 
ter than anything else in God’s earth, and 
I know you’ll be good to him!” 

So it was that Captain Jinks had come 
into the possession of the lady who was 
now his idol, though at first it had seemed 
that his heart would break for the love 
of Daniel. But that was five long years 
ago. Daily now he was solicitously tended 
and brushed and combed and made splendid 
for walks and drives in the park. He lov- 
ed his luxurious apartments; his cosy-cor- 
ner with its many pillows; he gloried in the 
sheen of his satin ribbons, and it was his 
joy to be attended once a month at his 
rooms by his own private barber, who 
shaved and ruffled and fluted him, and made 
bracelets about his forepaws. 

One of the new tricks Margaret had taught 
him was to count in four different languages, 
so that like his mistress, he had become 
something of a linguist. He performed his 
various “turns” and did whatever duty 
seemed nearest to him upon what might be 
termed the “rule of three” whether that 
number were called out to him in English, 
French, German, or Spanish. He had learn- 
ed that from that command there was no 
appeal, and that whether he had placed 
upon his tongue a bit of nasty medicine or 
the most appetizing morsel, he must swal- 
low without parley at the exclamation of his 
lady, “Three!”, “Trois!”, “Drei !”, or 
“Tres!” Carolyn Blaine always declared 
that there was even a noted difference in the 
sound of Captain Jinks’ bark, with which he 
announced that he had obeyed the command. 


4 


to correspond with the language in which it 
was given. 

He often went with his lady to the Tombs ; 
he entertained the poor children of the 
slums with his wonderful tricks; he delight 
ed little cripples with his performances, 
and he was always ready to do his “turns” 
at the various benefits for charity’s sake. 
But there was one turn he had never been 
encouraged to do, and which he had now 
quite forgotten. It was that of “pick- 
pocketing.” Altogether, Captain Jinks was 
very like his lady, a combination of world- 
ling and philanthropist. 

It was not until Margaret was twenty- 
nine, when she was at the height of her 
success as a comedy writer, and had at- 
tained to a remarkable degree of brilliancy 
and beauty as a woman, that she fell in love, 
or, as she herself expressed it discovered 
that she had “grown in love.” Up to that 
time many men had admired her, and 
several had thought they loved her. In a 
certain measure some of them had appeal- 
ed to her fancy, and she had enjoyed their 
comradeship, and had not been averse to a 
certain amount of their judicious flattery. 
She was quite frank in declaring that she 
“liked to be liked” by men. It had been so 
in the beginning of her associations with 
Samuel Blackmore, a smart young mining 
engineer a few years her senior. She had 
liked him to like her, and she had en- 
joyed liking him. 

“I don’t believe in ‘falling in love’!” 
she had once exclaimed in conversation 
with him. 

“What then?” he had asked in the most 
careless manner that a designing man could 
affect. 

“Two persons should grow in love. That 
is the safe and sane and by far the most 
delightful way,” she answered, and, hav- 
ing tact, the aspiring engineer laid his 
plans. 

They had been successful, so successful 
that when he went down to Peru to look 
after what he then grimly called his “mis- 
fortunes” in the Cajamarca Mines, Mar- 
garet Allison, in the midst of many friends 
and admirers, felt a lonely woman. This 
loneliness she never confided to any one, 
not even to Carolyn Blaine. But Captain 
Jinks often had a suspicion that something 
was amiss with his adored lady, when she 
would suddenly look up from her writing, 
and, grabbing her banjo, command him to 
dance, dance to a weird Peruvian air which 
she strummed upon it. Somehow, it seem- 
ed to her, that she was carried on the 
wings of this music to that arid southern 
country where Blackmore laboured and plan- 
ned and longed. On his return, his face 
beaming as he told her of his faith in the 
final success of his mining project, they 
became engaged, with the expectation of 
marrying within the year. 

Then came the catastrophe, the turning 
point in her career, the thing that strength- 
ened her love for her lover, embittered her 
to the all-consuming point against “cir- 
cumstantial evidence” as real evidence, and 
awakened within her the knowledge that 
she could hate. 

A disgruntled stockholder in the Caja- 
marca Mining Company carried what he 
called “evidence” to the District Attorney 
to show that while Samuel Blackmore cried 
“Gold! Gold!” there was no gold in the 


Cajamarca Mines, and the District Attorney 
having an old score to settle with Black- 
more, who had once interfered with one of 
his political ambitions, snatched delighted- 
ly at the plausible excuse for making it hot 
for the engineer. Before the Grand Jury 
he carried his points to explain to them 
that Blackmore had undertaken the exploita- 
tion of these mines, and had formed his 
company merely to get gold from the pock- 
ets of confiding investors, such gold being 
the only gold either in sight or hidden, for 
was it not well known, asked the District 
Attorney, that there was only lead and 
antimony to be found in the Coast Cordil- 
leras of Peru? Declaring that all the cir- 
cumstantial evidence proved Blackmore’s 
knowledge of the worthlessness of the Ca- 
jamarca Mines, he demanded an indictment 
against him. 

Somehow the Grand Jury found a flaw in 
the evidence, pronouncing it insufficient to 
indict, and Blackmore came through the 
ordeal with some people believing in him, 
others doubting him, and, financially, as he 
put it, “clean as a whistle” — that is to say, 
penniless. 

Women in general, when they love a man, 
belong to one of two classes — the motherly 
or the loverly. Love awakens the maternal 
instinct or it appeals to the mating in- 
stinct. The difference is shown in a dozen 
ways. The loverly woman may kill the lover 
who has been unfaithful to her ; the mother- 
ly woman will take him in her arms and for- 
give him his sins ; the loverly woman will 
delight in rumpling her lover’s hair, and 
giving him a sudden kiss upon the lips ; the 
motherly woman will smooth down his hair 
and kiss him on the forehead; the loverly 
woman sees in him her future husband ; the 
motherly woman thinks of him as the father 
of her unborn children. 

There is another class, a smaller one, 
rare and blessed, of women in love. They are 
those who unite in one soul and one body all 
the best attributes of the motherly and the 
loverly, basking thus in the full glory of 
love, needing never to fear unfaith. It 
was to this class that Margaret Allison be- 
longed. 

When on the night of the Grand Jury’s 
failure to indict Sam Blackmore. his hand- 
some boyish face all clouded, with his six 
feet of stature, his hundred and ninety 
pounds of avoirdupois, stood looking at his 
sweetheart with a half-suppressed longing 
in his eyes, and told her that their marriage 
must be postponed for perhaps a couple of 
years while he went down to Peru to bring 
up the gold which was to be the evidence 
of his integrity, the loverly instinct in 
Margaret Allison came to the surface. She 
gave him a good hard shake and laughingly 
said, “Nonsense, Sam! I’m determined to be 
married at once. What money I’ve got 
saved you can sink into your mines, and I’m 
going to Peru to live with you in an adobe 
hut and write Peruvian romances, and my 
‘keep’ will be almost nothing.” 

“You in an adobe hut! You miles and 
miles away from civilization!” he exclaimed, 
yet not able to disguise the joy that would 
shine in his eyes at the mere thought of the 
nearness of his heart’s desire. Then sud- 
denly his look changed. He was as one who 
had been taken to the mountain-top and 
shown great glories, then tempted, but not 
to his undoing. 

“No, Margaret,” he said. “I will not take 
you there. You don’t know what you ask. 


5 


I will release you, or you must wait.” 

One terrified look into his set face re- 
vealed to her that from this decision there 
was no appeal, and she answered softly, al- 
most meekly — 

“I will wait!” 

Out of the silence that followed she spoke 
again. 

‘‘Sam, I wish our engagement to be kept 
a secret till the very day of our marriage. 
I liave some work to do that I can do better 
if nobody knows about it.” 

‘‘Yes, Margaret, only you remember that 
John Henderson knows it already. He’s the 
only one.” 

‘‘It’s all right with good old John, but 
nobody else, Sam. I think not even Carolyn 
— well, possibly, Carolyn later on.” 

‘‘Nobody else, then!” he said, laughing. 
‘‘But what’s the work?” 

‘‘That I can’t tell you.” 

‘‘All right!” He laughed. ‘‘Something 
good I know, and something foolish I sus- 
pect. The establishment of a home for ex- 
convicts, with five-course dinners and a 
band of music?” 

She did not reply to his joke, but turned 
away her head, and spoke as though apropos 
of nothing and quite carelessly — 

‘‘I believe that the workings of the Dis- 
trict Attorney’s office are utterly bad and 
self-seeking, conscienceless, and without 
good red blood in the veins of a single one 
of the concern.” 

‘‘I agree with you, Margaret,” he ans- 
wered, not noting that still she kept her 
head turned so that he could not see her 
face. ‘‘It’s not truth, not justice, not right, 
but the game, oh, the game, they’re after, 
with him, the most bloodthirsty, at the 
head. The whole prosecution system in this 
country is wrong anyway. The prosecutor 
goes about seeking scalps to hang on his 
belt — what matter how he gets them ! It is 
his business, so he argues, to convict, that 
is, to bag the game, even if the facts are all 
against him. In England, in this respect at 
least, they do things more kindly and justly. 
Counsel for the Crown, in prosecuting, gives 
the defendant every opportunity to clear 
himself of the charge against him, and is 
actually sorry when he fails to put up a 
good case. It’s rotten over here, especially 
in New York, absolutely rotten!” 

‘‘Yes ” answered Margaret, and now she 
spoke with shaking voice between clenched 
teeth, and her hands that had freed them- 
selves from his clasp were now digging their 
nails the one into the other. In a moment 
she knew her lover would be turning her 
about to look into her face, he would be 
grabbing her hands again and kissing them, 
and she knew she must not let him, lest 
he see the hatred that she knew must be 
darkening her face, the light of determina- 
tion that had gathered in her eyes. She un- 
derstood herself perfectly. She knew that 
now the maternal instinct was uppermost, 
the instinct to defend and avenge her lover, 
who now became her dear, abused, shame- 
fully wronged child. Suddenly, to hide her 
face, she pressed it against his breast. 

“Sam,” she said in a hoarse voice, “the 
damnable workings of the District Attor- 
ney’s office should be. exposed, and the 
District Attorney himself should stand dis- 
credited and degraded before the whole 
world. He must never be re-elected.” 

“True, sweetheart!” agreed Sam. “All 
these things should be done, but who’s to do 
’em?” 


He did not hear her answer. He thought 
he heard her sigh in helplessness and dis- 
couragement, though through her firmly set 
lips there had escaped a muffled “I!” which 
was like a curse. 

A moment later she lifted a calm, smil- 
ing face to her lover, and her fingers flut- 
tered through his blond hair, lovingly pat- 
ting upon his forehead a lock that was 
sometimes orderly, sometimes in rebellion, 
according to the state of his temper, and 
which she herself had named his “war- 
lock.” 

“I think I’ll get at my serious work in 
real earnest while you’re away,” she said. 

“Well, if you must,” he smiled; “but how 
will you make the editors publish it, the 
light-headed idiots?” 

“Oh, some time they will publish it,” she 
said quietly. 

In bidding him good-night, she put up 
her mouth to be kissed, but deliberately he 
passed it by, resting his lips tenderly, rev- 
erently, upon her hair, for he knew the 
limits of his strength. 

“The time is so long that we must wait, 
sweetheart!” he said chokingly, and she 
knew he suffered, and he knew she under- 
stood. 

That night she sat long before her dress- 
ing-table, drawing the brush in and out 
among the reddish brown strands of her 
wonderful hair. Suddenly she took the comb 
and parted it in the middle, smoothing it 
over her ears. “Now I am a Madonna!” 
she said, as she looked into the glass and 
viewed the effect. She uncoiled it from the 
nape of her neck, and twisted it into a tight 
little knot, pointing straight outward, her 
front hair brushed back, yet careless-wise. 
“Psyche!” she cried, and now she laughed 
at her own reflection. Undoing it again, she 
plaited her hair in two long braids, tied 
them at bottom with a ribbon, allowed 
some wavy locks to fall girlishly about her 
ears and forehead, folded her hands calmly 
over her bosom, and walked up and down 
before the glass. “Behold, I am Gretchen, 
a German peasant maid of sixteen sum- 
mers!” she said, and certainly she looked 
it. 

Again she sat down, unplaited her hair, 
and dressed it in another fashion, with 
puffs and rolls, snatching from a cut-glass 
box a powder-puff, and dashed it over her 
head. “I am a lady of the Court of Louis 
XVI!” she said, nodding smilingly into 
the mirror. Suddenly, in the midst of re- 
moving the hairpins, she jumped from the 
chair. Her face became alight with a 
greater joy, and out into the drawing-room 
she rushed, her powdered hair falling over 
her shoulders. She turned on the full glow 
of the electric lights under their many 
pink shades, and sitting down to the piano, 
brought her hands upon the keys with a re- 
sounding crash, which roused Captain Jinks 
from his sleep in the cosy-corner. 

“Your own song and dance. Captain 
Jinks, your very own song!” she cried, 
bringing forth a bar of swinging melody 
which made the poodle give a yelp of de- 
light. 

“I am Captain .links of the Horse Marines, 

I often live lieyond my means, 

I sport younsr ladies in their teens, 

To eat a da.sh in the Army!” 

Up and down marched the poodle. Back 
and forth in perfect time went his ruffled 
paws upon the polished floor. At the fifth 
line. 


I 


6 


“I teach the ladies how to dance!” 
he lifted his front paws and hoisted himself 
on his hind legs and began dancing, at first 
solemnly and slowly, then joyously and 
quickly, his large brown eyes fairly brim- 
ming with mischief. 

‘‘I feed my horse good corn and heans!” 
sang Margaret, while Captain Jinks, swag- 
gering and important, folded his forepaws 
across his chest, and stalked over to a table, 
lifting from it with his teeth a wooden ci- 
gar, which he began to puff as he marched. 
As Margaret finished the chorus he stopped 
dancing, folded his paws more tightly, and 
shook his body from side to side. Suddenly 
he flew on his hind legs to the piano, and 
greeted his lady with a soulful “Wuff-wuff!” 
She stretched one hand from the keys to a 
vase above, snatching a flower, and into the 
orange ribbon that tied his top-knot she 
pushed a yellow daffodil. Then again, with 
fluttering curls and prancing feet, the dog 
dashed about the room, stopping for an in- 
stant to ptck up a cane very daintily with 
his teeth. 

The music ceased. Margaret turned 
breathlessly from the piano and watched 
Captain Jinks, who wearied not. He pre- 
sented arms, fired, went on dress parade, 
rested at ease, and with no music to guide, 
there was not a halt in the rhythm of his 
movements. She watched him with a pecu- 
liar smile upon her face, as though fasci- 
nated by his litheness and dexterity, yet 
with her thoughts afar. Then, as the 
charming little rascal paused for the bold 
wink with which he always punctuated the 
line — 

“For I’m their pet in the Army!” 
she flew to him with hugs and pats, and the 
chocolate creams in which his soul de- 
lighted. 

CHAPTER IT. 

PRESENTING MISS FRANCES 
FENNIMORE FARRINGTON. 

Mrs. Herbert, late of London, now lodg- 
ing-house keeper in Washington Square, 
New York, sat on the top chair of her sec- 
ond-floor front hall, and fanned herself 
with her Belfast linen apron. 

Mrs. Herbert herself called this particu- 
lar floor the “first” in accordance with Eng- 
lish custom, also the hall was a “passage,” 
and, asked her name, she would tell you 
quite distinctly that it was “ ’Erbert.” 

It was thus that she had introduced her- 
self to the lady who had rung her door bell 
the day before, inquiring if she took lodgers 
after the English fashion, letting to each 
person a bedroom and sitting-room, and 
serving the meals, or parts of meals as re- 
quired, privately to the lodger in her pri- 
vate sitting-room on her private dining- 
table, furnishing also a handy sideboard in 
the room for the storing of such things as 
pickles, sauces, and wines. 

Mrs. Herbert had started back with glad 
eyes and joyous face. “Madam,” she said, 
“I beg you to hexcuse me for jumping at 
you so, but the sound of your voice do go 
right through my hold ’eart and takes me 
back ’ome. You hare from hold Hengland, 
hare you not, Madam?” 

At first the lady had seemed upon the 
point of laughing, then catching herself, had 
said with a subdued smile — 

“And so you can tell so easily that I am 
from England? Now, I wish to get into 
lodgings at once. The thought of the New 
York boarding-house of which I have heard 
so many English visitors to this country 
complain, is quite unbearable to me. I 

7 


heard of you through friends, and I un- 
derstood that you would let lodgings in the 
same way that they are let in London.” 

“That I would, ma’am, hif hanybody would 
take them, but heverybody 'ere wants to 
heat at a long table. That I won't 'ave 
in my hown 'ome, destroying my hown 
privacy as well as theirs, so I’ve just been 
hobliged to let my rooms to gentlemen who 
take their meals houtside.” 

“But you will let me have two connecting 
rooms, will you not, and serve me such 
meals as I require?” 

“That I will, that is, hif my 'umble 'ouse 
will suit your ladyship.” 

“Thank you ! But don’t call me ‘your 
ladyship’! I will give you my card, and 
should you desire a reference — ” 

“Oh no, your ladyship — that is to say 
madam, not hat hall, not hat hall!” broke 
in Mrs. Herbert, and she held the bit of 
pasteboard which the lady handed to her 
so close to her eyes that it almost touched 
her lashes, whereat the lady smiled again. 
“A fine hold English name it does me good 
to look hat, madam, and proper it’s writ, 
and it do my ’eart good to 'ear the sound 
of hit!” 

The card read — 

“MISS FRANCES FENNIMORE FARRING- 
TON.” 

Then the lady had gone away, promising 
to send her luggage in the evening and her- 
self appear on the following morning. 

Now she had taken up her abode in the 
Washington Square house, and Mrs. Her- 
bert, having worked all the previous day 
and a good part of the previous night to 
get the two connecting rooms in what she 
called “happle-pie border,” sat now on the 
top stair, tired and perspiring. 

The new lodger was bustling about her 
rooms, unpacking various odds and ends 
from a thoroughly English-looking hip 
bath-tub, painted white on the inside, yel- 
low on the outside, and pushing it under 
the bed out of sight, she never having seem- 
ed to take into consideration the fact that 
in Mrs. Herbert’s house there were two 
modern porcelain bath-tubs fixed in white- 
tiled bathrooms on the second and third 
floors. Between intervals of unpacking, she 
would occasionally look out of the front 
window toward the square, dotted with chil- 
dren and nursemaids and tramps. Then she 
sat down in a rocking chair, cautiously, as 
though, being somewhat unfamiliar with it, 
she rather suspected its balancing proper- 
ties, and when she had got fairly to sway- 
ing her body gently back and forth, there 
was a timid knock on the door, and she 
answered, “Come!” 

A red-cheeked English girl of fifteen or 
sixteen entered, and looked toward the 
trunks. 

“Mother says shall I unpack your boxes, 
please miss?” she said. “I’m 'Arriet 'Erbert, 
miss,” and she curtsied respectfully, going 
over and unstrapping the trunks. 

“Thank you, Harriet,” smiled the lady, “I 
can unpack them quite nicely myself, but 
how very English it is of you to think of 
offering!” 

“Thank you, miss!” replied the girl; “and 
if you won’t have me unpack, mother says 
when would you like luncheon?” 

“About one o’clock, or a little after,” re- 
plied the lodger. 

“And mother says what would you 'ave, 
miss?” 

“A nice English luncheon ! Tell your 


mother to prepare me just what she thinks 
I shall appreciate as thoroughly English.” 

“Yes, miss! Thank you, miss!” replied 
the young girl; and again she curtsied and 
left the room. 

“Oh, mother, ain’t she ’ome-like?” ex- 
claimed Harriet when she had arrived at 
the basement kitchen, where Mrs. Herbert 
had now betaken herself. “I curtsied to her, 
mother; do you mind?” 

“Mind?” repeated Mrs. Herbert. “Do I 
mind your rememberin’ your manners and 
not forgettin’ what’s due your betters? What 
I do say about this country is that folks 
is always forgettin’ manners, ’Arriet” — and 
here she nodded mysteriously to her daugh- 
ter — “hit’s my hopinion she’s a ladyship.” 

“But, mother, I’ve called her ‘miss,’ and 
I mustn’t do that if she’s a ladyship!” ex- 
claimed Harriet, almost dropping the plate 
she had in her hand. “But I don’t see what 
call’ you’ve got to say that. She do speak 
soft and low and ’ave a way of bowing like 
Lady Annabel, which used to live at the 
’All at Maidstone; but gentry speaks and 
bows so, the same as ladyships.” 

“Has hif I was so hignorant not to know 
that!” retorted her mother scornfully; 
“but, mind you, I got it in my ’ead she’s a 
ladyship, and when I gets a thing in my 
’ead it’s generally so, as you might know 
by hexperience, ’Arriet. And if she’s a 
ladyship, it’s nobody’s business but ’er 
hown, say I ; and now be stirrin’ yourself 
and take the ’ot water to ’er.” 

“ ’Ot water!” repeated Harriet, with 
widened eyes. 

Mrs. Herbert burst out laughing. “Well, 
it do show what ’avin’ your hown ’ome 
folks about you again can do for your wits. 
I was that convinced I was back in Heng- 
land that I forgot there was ’ot and cold 
running water in the basin of ’er room — 
a very hunealthy thing it is, too!” 

She bustled about the kitchen. “Five- 
and-twenty to one!” she remarked. “ ’Arriet, 
go to Rickert’s and get two mutton chops, 
the real ’ome kind, mind you, or as much 
like the ’ome kind as they ’ave ’ere. ’Er 
ladyship shall ’ave luncheon that shall re- 
mind ’er of ’ome if your mother’s not mis- 
taken. She shall ’ave gooseberry fool, and 
peas with a sprig o’ mint. To think o’ 
cookin’ peas without mint — it’s that im- 
proper!” 

At one o’clock Harriet climbed the stairs 
with a tray of dishes. She laid the table 
in the new lodger’s sitting-room with great 
care, forgetting not three forks and three 
knives — the latter of real Sheffield steel — 
on either side of the plate, and placing a 
vase of what looked like English market 
flowers in the centre. 

When she had fetched the second tray 
containing the food, she stepped to the bed- 
room, and with a gentle tap and a respect- 
ful courtesy, said “Luncheon is served, miss!” 
and as she curtsied, the new lodger noted 
that her head was topped with a tiny cap. 

“A cap!” she exclaimed, smiling. “Are 
they worn here, then?” 

Harriet blushed. “I never wore one be- 
fore, miss. My mother said it would make 
you feel ’ome-like, miss. You see, miss, 
we don’t keep any maid, they’re so expen- 
sive, and besides, my mother, ’aving been 
a proper servant ’erself and knowing 'er 
place, she couldn’t abide the kind they 
’ave ’ere.” 

The lady was about to speak as though 


in protest when the ^1 interrupted eag- 
erly — 

“I don’t mind it, miss, indeed I don't. 
I’ll ’ave to wear one when I go back to 
England and go into service.” 

“You will go back, then?” asked the lady, 
as she seated herself in front of the chops. 

“Yes, miss, I think so, in two or three 
years. We’ve been here about a year now, 
and we like 'ome best.” 

“I hardly believe you will,” said Miss 
Farrington, smiling. “I have a fancy you 
will become a good American. They tell 
us that English people do grow to like it 
after stopping here some time,” and then 
she sighed, as though an unhappy memory 
or anticipation oppressed her. 

The little maid, in accordance with her 
mother’s instructions, stood back near the 
small sideboard, and silently waited till 
she should be asked to bring the sweets, 
and as she stood with a good view of the 
lady’s back and profile she studied her new 
lodger with somewhat of awesome interest. 

She saw a very straight figure, strictly 
tailor-made, and she decided that the lady 
was too tall and that she wore her hair 
done too high. Her gown, at which the 
girl gazed with admiration, w’as of blue 
and white pin-stripes. It w'as of the plain, 
somewhat severe style affected by English- 
women of the upper classes for morning 
wear and travelling. Its cut was extreme- 
ly good, and its every line and curve be- 
spoke Bond Street. 

Her eyes were dark, yet it was difficult 
to tell whether they were hazel or brown, 
and, when her face was in repose, they 
seemed to veil an unexpressed sorrow. One 
could not help feeling that she had a good 
forehead that should be exhibited to the 
smallest fraction of the smallest inch, and 
that it were a pity she did not know this, 
so that she would wear her hair brushed 
back from it, instead of allowing certain 
locks to fall over it in bang-like fashion. 
Her features were straight and clear-cut, 
and, except when she smiled, the whole ef- 
fect of her face and bearing was almost 
stiffiy patrician. 

As to her age, one would certainly have 
to refer to her as young, but it would have 
been difficult to fix with any degree of cer- 
tainty the approximate number of her 
years, except to say that she might be any- 
where between twenty-five and thirty-five. 

When she finished her sweet and drank 
her coffee, she smiled at Harriet, thank- 
ing her for the delightful luncheon, and an- 
nouncing that she would be going out to 
dinner, and might not return until late, 
she continued — 

“Harriet, while I think of it, I will tell 
you that I must never be disturbed in my 
rooms unless I ring for you, and I am al- 
ways ‘out’ to all visitors, whoever they 
may be, unless I tell you in advance that I 
am expecting someone. I will ring for you 
when I want breakfast, or wish to give an 
order for any other meal, and when I 
wish my rooms done up. Otherwise, I 
wish to be left in perfect duiet and never 
disturbed, for 1 have come here to do some 
very important work. 1 am engaged in 
writing.” 

“Yes, miss, thank you, miss, curtsied Har- 
riet, backing out of the room with her tray. 

“I think she might be a ladyship,” re- 
marked Harriet with perturbed brow, as 
she descended to her mother in the kitchen. 


“and I think she’s runned away from him, 
and scorned his money and the family em- 
eralds!” 

“Land sakesl What is the child talking 
about!” exclaimed the startled Mrs. Her- 
bert. “Runned away from who?” 

“From ’is lordship, because ’e was cruel,” 
explained Harriet. “She’s that sweet and 
grand and sorrowful, mother!” 

“’Arriet ’Erbert,” said her mother sol- 
emnly, “don’t you let me’ ear hanything 
like that from you again, and don’t you 
bring hany more books to this ’ouse from 
that public libr’y which fills you ’ead with 
such hideas! I won’t ’ave it!” and Mrs. 
Herbert stalked majestically to the sink. 

Unaware of the romantic atmosphere 
with which the imaginative minds of the 
two w'omen in the kitchen had already en- 
veloped her, the new lodger^ before going 
out for a walk, sat for a long time at the 
front window of her sitting-room peering 
into \’Cashington Square. It was a forward 
spring, and the trees were laden with bud- 
ding leaves, screening many of the park 
benches from view. Had she sat there at 
five o’clock, still peering out, she could not 
have discerned Margaret Allison and her 
dog pacing up and down one of the Square’s 
pathways, nor could she have heard Mar- 
garet murmur with a serio-comic air. 

“Mark the spot, Captain Jinks; mark the 
house where dwells our rival!” 

And all this happened on the very day 
when all New York was laughing over a 
story which appeared in a prominent weekly, 
entitled, “The Law as a ‘ Hass.’ ” It was 
a brilliant thing, wittily cutting, a take-off 
on circumstantial evidence, and, without a 
pretence of the thinnest of veils, a studied 
attack upon the District Attorney’s office. 
As they laughed over it, people wondered 
how Margaret Allison had dared so to hold 
up the head of that important office to ridi- 
cule, though certainly they admitted that 
lately there had been shown an excess of 
zeal that had led to a number of wrong 
persons being indicted and tried. 

The District Attorney read it, and, not 
being entirely without a sense of humour, 
he himself laughed at intervals between 
luncheon courses at Pontin’s. He was 
somewhat acquainted with Margaret Alli- 
son’s work, and he suspected its author- 
ship before he saw her signature. She had 
written other stories tending to an exposi- 
tion of law-court mistakes, but there was 
something about this that marked it as a 
thing by itself. There was a certain some- 
thing that seemed to show a pen dipped 
in gall before the lines were written. Yet 
how could he suspect that this was the 
beginning of a new campaign to be waged 
against him with the object of stripping 
from him the last vestige of the community’s 
honour and his own self-respect? He 
would have been interested, but his inter- 
est would have been of the derisive, scorn- 
ful sort, had he been told that against him 
there was arrayed a woman, alone and 
unassisted, who had sworn to encompass 
his downfall; that this woman had not a 
shadow of a doubt of her own success in 
accomplishing her purpose; that she had 
been aroused to a great sense of civic duty 
by the one motive that can inspire a 
woman to do great deeds for the good of 
humanity — love of her man and a wrong to 
avenge in his behalf — and that whereas 


once she had worked but sleepily, now her 
eyelids had been touched by the Hand of 
the Great Awakener. 

“A bit personal!” said the District Attor- 
ney, smiling, handing the story over to one 
of his assistants who sat opposite him. 
Then he added, half-curiously, “You might 
almost think it was written by one of my 
political enemies. Yet I never met the 
lady in my life, though I have seen her oc- 
casionally from afar haunting the court 
rooms and the Tombs entrance.” 

“Yes, a bit personal, as you say,” re- 
turned the assistant when he had finished 
reading it; and at two o’clock, in Part I of 
the Criminal Branch, they were busy with 
the prosecution in the case of the People 
versus Childers, and the District Attorney 
had forgotten all about it. 

CHAPTER HI 

“THE BEST FRIEND A MAN CAN 
HAVE ” 

Sam Blackmore’s face was lighted 
with a satisfied smile, as well as with the 
fire of the forge over which he was leaning, 
at the rear end of his adobe hut in the 
camp of the Cajamarca Mining Company on 
the western slope of the west coast range 
of the Peruvian Andes. 

It was a few minutes after the camp din- 
ner hour, a bit of time daily snatched for 
resting at ease among the miners. Some 
were jolly, some moody, some cracked 
jokes, some sang songs of melancholy, 
which they tried to accompany on ancient 
shell trumpets and bone and cane flutes, 
mementoes of the old civilization which 
had passed away with the Incas. It was 
sorry music. 

“Perdida yo la esperanza, 

Y el corazon palpitaiita ” 

“Stop it!” cried one of the company, 
throwing some dry alfalfa ^ into the very 
mouth of the singer. “This is ‘oh be joy- 
ful’ day, and if you can’t sing dance tunes, 
don’t sing at all — not that it would be much 
loss to the camp if your warbling should 
cease for all time! Look at Blackmore 
there, stewing gold in the only frying-pan!” 

“Talk about sad things,” piped up a 
pleasant voice that told of Kent in Eng- 
land, “that frying-pan is the saddest thing 
I can think about. Nobody objected to 
Blackmore’s using it in his retorting, if he 
would return it to the cook whole, but not 
having enough separate bits of iron, what 
with his two old spades and the rim of the 
stew-pot, he’s smashed the frying-pan into 
three pieces, so he could land three sepa- 
rate buttons on it!” 

The speaker was Lawrence, also a mining 
engineer, and Blackmore’s most valued as- 
sistant. He was tali and athletic, and his 
once ruddy face was now tanned to an 
even orange. His eyes sparkled and his 
voice rang loud as he called into the hut — 

“I say, there, Blackmore, your cazuela’s 
getting cold! For heaven’s sake, take a bit 
of nourishment and stretch your legs! You 
sit there like the ghost of Atahualpa 
mourning over lost gold!” 

“Joying over found goid, you mean,” said 
Blackmore, appearing -in the doorway. “But, 
yes, I will try some of the stew. Here, 
Felipe!” 

“Si, senor!” cried a young half-breed, 
with a red handkerchief tied around his 
waist in lieu of cook’s apron, and running 
up with a great pot and a ladle. “Muy 

9 


bien cazuela; no, senor?” 

“Muy bien, sure!” answered Sam, as he 
stood in the doorway and began eating from 
a tin soup plate. It was a toothsome viand, 
and worthy of Felipe’s skill, needing knife, 
fork, and spoon for its consumption. There 
was a large bit of mutton floating about in 
the liquor, a whole egg poached, green 
peas, and beans, cabbage leaves, slices of 
white turnip, celery, onions, and potatoes 

It constituted the whole dinner. One 
needed nothing more after partaking of 
this, the national dish of which the Peru- 
vians are so rightly proud. 

“More, senor; no?” asked Felipe anxious- 
ly, and again -he filled the tin plate. 

Within fifteen minutes Sam was back at 
his forge. There was still left some play- 
time for the others, but not for him. 

There was a curious collection of things 
in his sanctum, this place where he was 
now retorting gold in the most primeval 
fashion. First he squeezed the amalgam 
through chamois leather, then he would 
grab one of a dozen potatoes, cutting off 
the end and scooping a hole in it, then into 
the hole inserting the round ball of 
amalgam and turning the potato on to the 
retorting plate, which happened to be a 
three-cornered piece of the ever-to-be-la- 
mented camp frying-pan. Then heating 
gradually the forge, he pushed his broken 
iron with its potato tower into the midst of 
the heat, by which means he got a button 
of gold on the frying-pan and globules of 
mercury in the hollow of the potato. 

On he worked, his very blood tingling 
with delight — not at the sight of the gold 
as gold, but at the thought of what the 
demonstration of his ability to find gold 
would mean, right here, where he had all 
along declared it was, embedded in the 
quartz from six to ten ounces to the ton, in 
this particular spot, about midway between 
iGuadelupe and the town of Cajamarca. 

It was not a place to please the eye, this 
mining camp and its surroundings. Only 
mountain peaks pierced into the gray mot- 
tled clouds for miles around, all dry and 
arid, with no green to brighten the scene. 
Grey herbs and parched cacti grew upon 
the mountain sides, and only occasionally 
did a cactus burst into scarlet among the 
grey. There was little animal life, and 
never a bird except the white ruffled con- 
'V dor, soaring, vulture-like, lazily over the 
camp. Scraggy prospis trees were dotted 
here and there, supplying sticks and twigs 
for the building of the bush-beds of the 
miners. About on the ground were strewn 
skeletons of alpacas, vicunas, and llamas, 
mingled with an occasional human skull 
that grinned as though in derision at the 
seekers after the paltry mebal, the need, if 
not the love, of which makes all mankind 
akin. 

In the adobe hut, within arm’s reach O’ 
the young engineer, who was assayer, met- 
allurgist, manager, all in one, hung a 
stuffed guana bird which had wandered thus 
far from the coast and from its kind to find 
a sort of immortality in some museum 
where it finally would be deposited. Near 
it depended a necklace of monkey-teeth 
and three beetle-wing bracelets, almost 
touching a group of poisoned arrows. 

The fifth gold button was lying upon the 
broken spade, and Blackmore looked up 
smilingly into the face of a tall, cadaverous 
man. some years his senior, who had quiet- 


ly entered the hut. His countenance might 
have been called grim were it not for the 
twinkle in his eyes, as he said — 

“Well, Sam, the buttons are for Margaret, 
I suppose, as well as the nugget?” 

“Sure, Henderson! What more proper 
than that the little girl should have the 
first output from the Margaret Mine?” 

John Henderson, of Cincinnati, had 
known Margaret Allison from her early 
schooldays, and for Sam himself he had 
a half-paternal affection. It was he who 
had introduced Margaret to her first editor, 
‘and his wife, the sweetest of aspiring 
match-makers, had brought about the first 
meeting between Margaret and Sam. Short- 
ly after the two had told her of their en- 
gagement, Mrs. Henderson had died, and 
now her widowed husband took a lively in- 
terest in the fortunes of his two devoted 
friends. He was attracted to Margaret by 
a certain sweetness in her temperament 
as well as by her brilliant wit and keen 
humour. He basked in the light of Sam’s 
sunny face, swore by the honour and in- 
tegrity of Sam’s soul, while a particular 
element in Sam’s character was a source of 
continual wonder and amusement to him. 
This was a certain sort of loyalty in Sam’s 
make-up which made it impossible for him 
ever to assume a critical attitude toward 
the friends he loved best. It was Hender- 
son’s contention that Sam’s loyalty to his 
friends at times made his point of view 
a bit one-sided; that where his friends weru 
concerned it was an utter impossibility for 
him to look all around a subject. This 
weakness, if such it could be called, was 
the engineer’s only one. While refusing to 
see the faults of his friends, he was wont 
to ferret out hitherto unsuspected virtues 
in his enemies. For injury which the latter 
might do him he bore no malice, though 
he would pounce upon them roundly if they 
attacked those he held dear. This attitude 
had been amusingly illustrated only recent- 
ly in the camp. In a dispute, one of the 
discharged miners had hastily called 
Blackmore a liar, which insinuation had 
brought from the engineer but the com- 
mand, “Get out, I’m busy!” 

“And so’s Lawrence a liar!” continued 
the man, and then Sam knocked him down. 

When Blackmore had been almost indict- 
ed for misrepresenting his mines, Hender- 
son had been out of the country, but he had 
come hurrying back at the news of the mis- 
fortune that had befallen his friend, and 
started secretly to get^ together the work- 
ing capital which was so sorely needed af- 
ter the dissatisfaction of certain stock- 
holders. Now, the Cajamarca Mining Com- 
pany was on its feet again; Sam had ca- 
bled him that the quartz was rich with 
gold, the first shaft having been sunk on 
the wrong side of the lode, and Henderson 
had hastened to Peru to take a look at the 
operations. Now he was ready to return to 
Cincinnati by way of New York, and the 
mule which was to help him for the first 
part of his journey stood ready bridled at 
the far end of the camp. 

Henderson’s twinkle deepened as he view- 
ed again the broken bits of retorting iron. 
“Did you crush the quartz yourself, too, 
Sam?” he asked jocosely. 

“No, the new crusher works splendidly 
and the reduction mills are going on with- 
out any gold-thieving, but the retorting 
machine got out of gear just at the psy- 


lO 


chological moment, so I turned to the po- 
tatoes. They’re all right!” he announced 
proudly. 

He was now at work on the last ball of 
amalgam, squeezing it with might ana 
main and clenched teeth. The last piece ot 
chamois leather had broken (and he had 
demanded from Henderson the half of his 
strong linen handkerchief for the process. 
He had a knack of finding always his tools 
to hand when he needed them. He could 
make an excellent filter out of a nail can 
and some broken stones. He could extract 
water from the roots of plants; manufac- 
ture beds from grain sacks and sticks; 
make soap from wood-ashes and tallow- 
candle ends; manufacture a slush-lamp 
from waste bacon-rinds and a strip of his 
trousers-lining. 

The thing he could not abide was pro- 
crastination and delay. To the man under 
him who did the things he ought not to do 
he was far more merciful than to him who 
left undone the things he ought to have 
done. Why one should desire to put off 
till to-morrow the thing that demanded do- 
ing to-day was one of the problems that 
ever puzzled him, and that he lived and 
kept his health and his sunny nature in 
Peru, the Land of Manana, even making 
himself the adored Senor of the half-breed 
and Peruvian diggers, was the wonder of 
wonders. 

“Manana! Manana, si Senor, Manana!” at 
first cried Felipe, the camp cook, and Pad- 
re Pedro, the curious little priest who had 
joined the camp as “chaplain” when the 
American engineer had suggested to him 
that he needed his influence to keep the 
half-breeds in order. But now they only 
murmured it softly, by way of habit, and it 
was as though they replied, “Very well, 
sir!” instead of “To-morrow, to-morrow, 
Senor!” 

Padre Pedro was most useful about the 
camp. He it was who managed the llamas, 
those camels of the Anaes, to a nicety, 
gauging always to the uttermost ounce 
the weight that these helpful beasts would 
carry, for they drew the line at an hundred 
pounds. Add an ounce to that hundredth 
pound and they budged not. They knew 
their limit and were not to be imposed up- 
on. Let one hundred and one pounds need 
to be carried, and a pack-mule must be 
brought out and laden to accompany them 
on the way. Padre Pedro had learned to 
calculate a hundred pounds’ weight to the 
last ounce, and was the overseer when 
journeys were to be made and provisions 
to be hauled. With his coarse brown sur- 
tout rolled up in a sort of bustle round his 
waist, his little body flew anout; hitner ana 
thither among the miners, helping at what- 
ever work there was for him to do, nursing 
the ailing, praying with the sinners who 
had broken the Eleventh Commandment, 
and worshipping as his god, though he real- 
ized it not, Sam Blackmore, Americano. 

There is in Peru a belief that a pack- 
mule will never move till he is beaten, 
and that he will stop moving once the 
beating ceases, so those who ride or drive 
these animals carry always a club cut 
from a tree, with which to belabour the 
mule, first on one side, then on the other 
in sort of rhythmic motion. 

“Damn you, Felipe, you miserable Cholo! 
Let that poor beast alone!” cried Black- 
more one day, as his faithful servant sat 


upon an undersized white mule, ready to 
carry some needful things from the Mar- 
garet Mine to the Maria Mine. 

“Him got no soul, he no Christian, Se- 
nor!” replied Felipe, smiling into tiis mas- 
ter’s face as though to say if the soul 
were lacking, it matter not that the body 
be abused. 

Sam pondered upon this excuse all the 
while he tried to abolish the beating-club 
from the camp. It seemed useless. He 
knew that the minute his back was turned 
the belabouring of the mules was on. 
Suddenly, one Sunday afternoon when 
Padre Pedro was about to conduct re- 
ligious services for those of his own peo- 
ple and his own faith, Sam called the lit- 
tle priest to him and commanded him to 
take this text, which with all due solem- 
nity he read aloud from a Spanish Bible — 

“The merciful man is merciful to his 
beast, which also hath a soul!” 

The little priest looked bewildered. “I 
have not learned it so, Senor!” he said 
rGSp6ct fully. 

“That’s because your Bible is Peruvian 
Spanish, and this is Castilian Spanish!” 
replied Sam loftily. 

“Si, Senor?” returned Padre Pedro doubt- 
fully, scratching the tonsure of his head. 

The sermon was duly preached, Sam sit- 
ting in the audience on a quartz rock, to 
hear that it was properly done. Once 
during the sermon his eye met that of 
Padre Pedro, and perhaps he only fancied 
that the priest winked ever so slightly. In 
any event the beating-club disappeared 
from the camp, and the mules had cause 
to bray a blessing on Sam’s original 
rendering of the Scriptures. 

It was Padre Pedro who was to accom- 
pany Henderson on a part of the jour- 
ney to be taken mule-back, and now as 
the two Americans sat together in their 
final talk, the priest stood respectfully in 
the distance. 

“You’ll see Margaret at once?” said 
Sam, inquiringly. “Tell her what I didn’t 
have time to write in the letter, that she 
can have an image of Captain Jinks cut 
out of the nugget, and she might have 
some real proper buttons made for a shirt- 
waist out of these I send. Explain to her 
the potato process of retorting. It’ll in- 
terest her. To think she actually tried to 
insist on marrying me and coming down 
here to live in an adobe hut!” 

He turned away his face for an instant 
to hide a dimness that had come to his 
eyes. Then he began packing the bits of 
gold and the nugget into a little leather 
bag for Henderson to carry suspended 
around his neck, during the pack-mule 
journey towards the coast. 

“My God! What it will mean to be vin- 
dicated, Henderson!” he said. “To get out 
of debt, to look one’s tailor squarely in 
the eye, to take a flier in Wall ^ Street 
with a clear conscience though I’m not 
sure but knowing I was able to lose would 
spoil the fun. Margaret says so!” 

He laughed softly. “Did you ever see 
anyone with that girl’s imagination? She 
says that if everything in life were sure 
and steady and without risk it would 
lose all fascination; that the way to en- 
joy life is to have your money on the 
horse that you notice is just a little be- 
hind; in the stock that you’re pretty sure 
of, but not quite! I say, Henderson, did 
you read that story of hers in the copy 


II 


of MacLean’s you brought me? Sparkle? 
Why, it was like champagne, and yet she 
actually is unhappy because the editors 
won’t hear of her doing another kina of 
work. You know how keen she is on doing 
the tragic side — she calls it ‘touching the 
world’s heart-strings’?” 

“Yes,” answered Henderson, looking cur- 
iously at Sam’s face, ‘‘and I’m of the 
opinion that she’ll do it.” 

“Well, of course, if she wants to give 
up her comedy writing, there’ll be nothing 
to prevent her writing tragedies and nov- 
els with purposes to her heart’s content 
a year from now when we’re married, 
but I’m going to make an engagement with 
her that she is to write a light and airy 
trifle once a week for my especial bene- 
fit. She needn’t have them published if 
she doesn’t want to, but I’ve got to have 
’em.” 

“She’s working on the tragic vein for 
all that’s in her,” replied Henderson. “She 
showed me two or three of her immense 
stories just before I came away, stories 
that had then been rejected by a dozen 
different editors, and she gritted her teeth 
and said they’d publish them yet. Indeed, 
she was more determined than ever when I 
left New York, for a new star has appear- 
ed in the literary horizon there, a woman 
who’s turning out precisely the sort of 
stories that Margaret has been trying to 
get published for years. Farrington, the 
woman’s name is, a new English writer, 
they say, Frances Fennimore Farrington.” 

“Oh!” snapped Sam; “I remember wading 
thrjough two of her stories the other night. 
They were in those magazines you brought. 
I didn’t think much of them — can’t com- 
pare with Margaret’s work that the dam- 
fool editors have rejected.” 

Henderson laughed. The twinkle in his 
eye deepened, and would not leave it even 
after his face had become straight. “You 
are prejudiced, Sam!” he said. 

“No; I wouldn’t allow my love for Mar- 
garet to prejudice my literary judgment, 
I assure you!” Sam answered solemnly, 
whereupon Henderson drew back his head 
and roared. Then his eyes wandered to a 
shelf whereon Sam kept his literary treas- 
ures — a volume of Shakespeare and one of 
Tennyson, the Spanish Bible from which 
he instructed Padre Pedro, a few treatises 
on mining, and the complete works of Mar- 
garet Allison. From all the books the cov- 
ers had been torn, to lighten them as 
baggage. Sam took down one of Margaret’s 
books and turned lovingly to a short story, 
much thumb-marked. “Margaret’s com- 
edy is of the kind that makes you laugh 
and cry at the same time. This little 
thing, now, was published as a comedy, 
tout I defy anybody to read it and ever 
forget it, and he’ll think of it with tears 
running down a red face that’s been 
laughing. I lend her books to the men — 
that’s the reason I tore the title-pages 
with her name out of ithem. Didn’t want 
any suspicion going around the camp. 
The fellows would soon connect the name 
of the girl with the name of Margaret 
Mine. You see nobody knows of our en- 
gagement but you, unless Margaret decided 
to tell her friend, Carolyn Blaine.” 

“Yes, I understand,” said Henderson. 
Now his face was sober, the twinkle almost 
gone. “She didn’t tell you why she didn’t 
want it known, did she?” 

“No; she said she had some work to do 


that she couldn’t do if it were known we 
were engaged. She didn’t seem to want to 
explain, so I let it go at that. Besides, se- 
crecy is better till I am thoroughly on my 
feet. By the way, I wish, Henderson, you’d 
- see to sending me some of the weekly pa- 
pers and a few of the Sundays. I like to 
know what’s going on in the world. Mar- 
garet used to send all the best of them, but 
now she has stopped them. In her last let- 
ter she said she was afraid the reading of 
them would distract my mind.” 

“They might, that’s so,” said Henderson 
musingly; then he remarked solemnly — 

“She loves you, Sam!” 

“You mean that as a piece of new'S?” 
asked the engineer, with a broad smile of 
proud possession. 

“No, only as something for you to re- 
member later on,” returned Henderson 
briefly. “But now I’m ready for the mule 
and Padre Pedro.” 

As the travellers started away from the 
camp, the miners w^ere returning to their 
underground work. A light was in their 
eyes, a smile was on their faces, the light 
and smile of hope. As Padre Pedro and 
Henderson moved out upon the slow descent 
of the trail, snatches of their favorite 
work-song w'ere carried afar — 

“Golci, gold, gold, 

I lovo to hear it jingle! 

Gold, gold, gold. 

It makes my fingers tingle ” 

“Ah, it does that. Padre Pedro!” said 
Henderson, addressing the priest, who rode 
ahead of him. Carefully, skilfully, yet all 
wanting in swiftness, the mules moved on. 

“Ihe best friend a man can have. 

Is gold, gold, gold ” 

came now the faint voices of the miners. 

“The Senor no like those words w'hich 
end the seenging,” remarked Padre Pedro, 
turning round and facing Henderson. “Eet 
make him swear and say, ‘Damn lie!’ ” and 
Henderson pondered. He- could not know 
that at such times the image of his sweet- 
heart, Margaret Allison, and of himself as 
a true and tried friend, flitted suddenly into 
Sam Blackmore’s vision, as something far 
above the value of the yellow metal for 
which he dug. 

CHAPTER IV. 

A FRIENDSHIP “BETWIXT LIKENESS 
AND UNLIKENESS.” 

Slow-witted persons, who thought they 
knew Carolyn Blaine and Margaret Al- 
lison, always referred to the friendship be- 
tween them as being “thoroughly inconsis- 
tent.” They did not understand that in- 
consistency could be the only possible con- 
sistent trait in a nature like Margaret 
Allison’s. 

In many ways the two young women were 
as far apart as the poles, and most espe- 
cially were they so in their religious views. 
Margaret was known among her acquain- 
tances as tne Magnificent Pagan, who va- 
riously shocked them by the broad, and 
what some called “unmoral,” outlook upon 
life, and awed them by her religious fervor. 
Doubtless the person who came nearest to 
understanding her in this particular w'as 
the only clergyman whom she counted 
among her friends, one Joseph Tyler, an un- 
frocked piest, expelled from his Church for 
heresy. ^ The Little Dominie, as Margaret 
had named him, lived now a from hand-to- 
mouth existence on the East Side, where 


12 


she often joined him in his work among 
those whom he termed “the underserving 
poor.’’ 

“You see,’’ said he one day, “they need 
our help much more than the deserving 
ones, who, at least, have the approval of 
their healthy consciences. In hunger, in 
debt, or in sin, it is no comfort to remem- 
ber that we brought it on ourselves!’’ and 
Margaret laughed at the Little Dominie’s 
ready wit. 

Carolyn Blaine, the young high school 
teacher, loved Margaret beyond all human 
kind. She had her own brothers and sis- 
ters of the blood, dependents upon her, whom 
she worked hard to support, yet none was 
so dear to her as Margaret. There were 
times when she failed to understand her 
brilliant friend, still at such times she wor- 
shipped, albeit blindly. A rigid Churchwo- 
man, accepting unquestioningly the faith in 
which she had been reared both at home 
and in boarding school, she still felt that 
salvation was outside as well as within 
the Church, and she counted Margaret Alli- 
son as one of the elect. 

Their friendship now was of many years’ 
standing. It had lasted, or rather it had 
progressed, from their boarding-school 
days. Fifteen or sixteen years ago, on the 
first day of Margaret’s boarding-school life, 
Carolyn haj^ noticed her seated on the first 
stone of the seminary’s broad steps, with 
tears of homesickness slowly trickling down 
her cheeks and into the blue-and- white 
polka-dot dress which she wore. Carolyn, 
who had arrived at the school a fortnight 
in advance, hesitated somewhat unsteadily 
in her pacing up and down the gravel walk, 
and then walked firmly over to the new 
scholar. Holding out her hands, and look- 
ing her squarely in the eyes, she said — 

“I’d like to be friends with you, now 
and always. Somehow, I think I’ve got to 
be.’’ 

“You won’t like me,’’ the little girl an- 
swered, looking her squarely back in the 
eyes. 

“Yes, I shall,’’ contradicted the little 
Carolyn. 

“How long have you been here?’’ asked 
the polka-dotted little girl, as though to 
change the subject. 

“Two weeks now. You’re late for term, 
you know.’’ 

“How many rules have you broken?’’ 
went on the new scholar. 

Carolyn stared in surprise. “None! You 
mustn’t get the wrong idea about boarding- 
school rules. They’re all just rules, just 
and fair and square.” 

“Humph! I’m going to break every one 
of ’em before I graduate! I hate rules. If 
there weren’t any rules, everybody would 
always do right.” 

“Oh, what a funny idea!” laughed little 
Carolyn. “If there were no rules, every- 
body would always d'o wrong, but they 
wouldn’t know it was wrong.” 

“Well, I’m bound to break all the rules, 
anyway. See, here’s a list of ’em, which 
I’m going to tack on my closet door, and 
every time I get one broken I’ll put a 
little cross before it. In that way I’ll al- 
ways known how many I’ve broken and how 
many are yet to be broken.” 

The small anarchist stretched out a large 
sheet of stiff paper upon her lap. “They’re 
twenty-nine,” she announced, after count- 


ing. “Pour years into twenty-nine goes 
seven times and one over. That means I’m 
to break seven a year and one to carry. I 
mean I must break seven for three years 
and eight in the fourth year. Taken alto- 
gether, twenty-nine rules seem a lot. They 
make me raring, tearing mad to look at 
’em, but when I divide ’em up like that, 

I think I can stand it. It’s not even one 
a month, so breaking ’em can’t interfere 
awfully much with my studies.” 

Carolyn Blaine, at that time aged thir- 
teen and eight months, stood looking at 
Margaret Allison, just thirteen and a half, 
with a mouth that seemed prised open with 
amazement. Margaret looked back half 
tearfully, half defiantly. “I’d like to be 
friends, and I’d like you to like me better 
than any other girl in the school,” she said, 
“but I thought I’d be honest and tell you 
about the rules.” Again she smoothed out 
the abhorrent paper on her lap. 

“You could break every one of ’em, and 
be a perfectly honest, kind girl,” she an- 
nounced finally. “Now, it can’t be a sin 
to talk out of the third storey window to 
a girl in the croquet lawn, can it?” 

“It’s a sin because the rule says not to 
do it, and it’s a sort of cheating and leads 
to lying,” was Carolyn’s reply. 

“My, no!” exclaimed Margaret, her polka- 
dotted chest heaving with horror. “I hope ^ 
you don’t think I’d ever tell a lie to save 
myself. Lying is so mean, so low! I 
.wouldn’t tell a lie, no, I wouldn’t — ^tell a 
lie ” 

For a moment the child seemed lost In 
an argument with herself. Then she sat 
up very straight. “I think,” she said, hold- 
ing her head very erect. “I have just now 
told a lie, aind it’s the first lie I ever told 
in my life. I told you a lie when I said 
I would never tell a lie.” 

At this astounding and somewhat con- 
tradictory declaration, Carolyn Blaine did 
not waver nor shrink back. Her look be- 
came one of faith without understanding. 
Then she put out her hand and let it wan- 
der lovingly over the auburn-tinged hair 
of her new schoolmate who, thus encour- 
aged, went on with her declaration of 
principles. 

“I never told a lie but once, and that 
was just now when I said I wouldn’t tell a 
lie, because sometime I know I might tell 
a lie — a great bag whopping one that would 
do a lot of good — ^a beautiful, grand, noble 
lie that would make somebody happier and 
better for it. But I wouldn’t tell a nasty, 
sneaking lie, and if they ever ask me If 
I talked out of the window I’ll say I did, 
because I certainly intend to do it. There! 
That’s what I mean,” 

Little Carolyn sat down on the step and 
took Margaret’s hand. “We shall be great 
friends,” she said sweetly, “but we shall 
never agree, but it won’t make any differ- 
ence about loving. Still, I know that right’s 
right, and wrong’s wrong, and to tell the 
truth is right, and to tell a lie is wrong! 
My father says so, and he knows, because 
my father Is a good man!” 

“We shall be great friends, but we shall 
never agree!” Now, years after, grown to 
womanhood, the prophecy was fulfilled. “It 
won’t make any difference about loving!” 
No, it had not, and Carolyn Blaine, pac- 
ing now^ up and down, not on the gravel 
walk, but in the great hall outside Mar- 
garet’s apartment at the Hotel Illington, 


13 


thanked God for the fulfilment nf her quaint 
childish prophecy. She thought of the beau- 
ty of their friendship, the strength, the 
breadth, and the depth of it, the ever- 
growing love between them as the years 
fhad come and gone. They had grown apart 
even farther in opinion about many things, 
but love had increased. In certain ways 
Carolyn was as rigid, as uncompromising 
as ever. With her, still, right was right, 
wrong was wrong, while with Margaret 
wrong seemed sometimes to be right and 
right seemed sometimes to be wrong, from 
Carolyn’s point of view. 

There was the little chambermaid at the 
hotel. How could Margaret reconcile it 
with her conscience not to explain that 
■she had been in prison? There were her 
many other ex-convict proteges for whom 
she secured situations, herself standing as 
reference for their honesty, and often be- 
ing robbed by those she helped, yet never 
attempting to have them sent back to pri- 
son. “No, I won’it prosecute the poor 
wretches. Prison life is not reformatory — 
it only makes them worse,” she would 
say. 

“Oh, Margaret, you encourage crime, and 
you discourage truth!” Carolyn would ex- 
claim. 

“In the immortal words of Pilate, What 
is Truth?” asked Margaret one day. 

“Truth is the Ultimate Principle, God!” 
returned Carolyn. “That is why honesty is 
so essential. God being Truth, I must do 
nothing to oppose Truth. If I do, I cannot 
win out. I must go to pieces.” 

“Sounds like a geometrical theorem! ' 
laughed Margaret. “The square of the 
Hypotenuse is equal to the sum of the 
squares of the other two sides. You can’t 
govern mankind by a formula like that, and 
one of these days you yourself will go to 
pieces over the very rule that you declare 
keeps you whole.” 

Carolyn laughed softly as she thought of 
this reply of Margaret’s, as again she be- 
gan walking nervously up and down the 
hall. Occasionally she would stop at the 
door, give the knob a vigorous rattle, listen 
breathlessly, and resume her wanderings. 

It was very strange, these continual ab- 
sences of Margaret from her rooms these 
several weeks past. Carolyn was accus- 
tomed to running in and out with little 
ceremony, never giving her name at the 
hotel office, but finding her way directly to 
the apartment occupied by her friend. 

“Captain Jinks, are you there?” she 
asked softly, placing her lips to the key- 
hole. In answer there came a half-sup- 
pressed sigh, then a subdued patter of 
paws on the polished surfaces which the 
rugs did not cover, then a suspicious snif- 
fing at the door, an audible sign of disap- 
pointment, and a return patter-patter, 
which grew softer and fainter as it receded 
into a farther room, and Carolyn knew that 
Margaret’s guardian was alone, and impa- 
tiently awaiting his lady’s return. 

Just then she heard the merry voice of 
Margaret, who had whisked out of the ele- 
vator and was striding toward her. 

“Poor thing!” piped Margaret. “Did she 
have to wait in the hallways?” 

“Miss Gadabout!” retorted Carolyn. 
“Half the time you’re out now when I 
come, or else you pretend to be!” 

“Busy these days, Carolyn!” laughed 
Margaret, turning her key and receiving 
the embraces of Captain Jinks, who had 


heard her voice from afar, and was found 
standing on his hind legs at the very en- 
trance. “My new play is to be put on 
shortly, and, among other things. I’m try- 
ing to coach that stupid little actress into 
a dim understanding of the principal part.” 

“You mean your new comedy?” screamed 
Carolyn, clapping her hands. 

“I certainly don’t mean my old tragedy, 
which is there in the drawer, just returned 
from the seventh theatrical manager!” 
snapped Margaret. The smile had gone 
from her face, which suddenly seemed to 
have absorbed from the desk drawer the 
tragedy of which she spoke. 

“Oh, Margaret, don’t take it like that!” 
exclaimed Carolyn. “Still, I know how 
hard it is that your best work should not 
be appreciated. Sometimes I swear within 
my soul, when I think of it. But one of 
these days, dear, one of these days!” 

“Yes! One of these days!” mimicked 
Margaret viciously; “but I do declare I’ll 
this minute dismiss it from my mind, and 
enjoy the gifts the gods do bestow. Look 
at this cheque for a thousand dollars from 
MacLean’s Magazine. They’ve bought all 
my ‘Little Court Comedies.’ ” 

Carolyn laughed. “1 suspect that every 
one of the ‘little comedies’ is a tragedy in 
disguise!” 

“So it is,” returned Margaret, “but the 
idiots don’t know that. They oniy take it 
for granted that, being by Margaret Alli- 
son, the Humourist, it must be to laugh, so 
they laugh. That’s my revenge on this im- 
becile generation of magazine editors.” 

“Oh, well, pour me some tea, dear, and 
tell me about your play. What actress is 
this you are coaching for the leading 
r61e?” 

“Helen Morton. In so far as her ap- 
pearance is concerned it seems as though 
she were made for the part, or the part for 
her.” 

“But she’s never appeared in really high 
comedy before, has she?” 

“No, and that’s just the trouble. Never 
anything but melodrama, and even at that 
the pool little soul has had hard luck, and 
been stranded on the road twice within the 
year. I used my infiuence to get her this 
part, for, as I said, she looks it to perfec- 
tion, and I am going to make a fine comedy 
actress of her, but she must act this part 
as I tell her.” 

“Are you not afraid she’ll be rather 
wooden if she has no conception of it her- 
self?” 

“Oh, she has conception enough, rather 
too much, and that’s been the worry to-day. 

I just told her that until she made her 
reputation as a comedienne, she had no 
business having conceptions of her own, 
at least she couldn’t have them in my 
plays, and if she exhibited any more of her 
own original ideas I should advise the en- 
gaging of some one else to take this part. 
She gave in, and I anticipate no further 
difficulty. She is wonderfully clever at 
imitating, so I simply go through the part 
for her and tell her she must imitate me. 
When she comes to the regular rehearsals, 

I think she will astonish the stage man- 
ager a bit.” 

Margaret laughed, and went on. “Whi-'t 
do you suppose Watkinson, the manager, 
wants me to do? Go on and take the part 
myself! He says I’m the best actress he 
ever saw, but I have assured him that my 
ambitions are not in' that line. I shall be 


14 


satisfied at having written the play, draw- 
ing my royalties, and watching Helen Mor- 
ton become the best comedy actress in 
New York.” 

She refilled Captain Jinks’ saucer with 
milk, then handed Carolyn a magazine. 
“You’ll like my little story in there,” she 
said, “and you can read it while I straight- 
en some papers. ’ 

She turned to a great flat-topped desk 
and gathered some pages of type-written 
manuscript together, shaking them down 
evenly, and fastening them with a clip, her 
eyes wandering now and then to her 
friend’s face. 

“Of your very best, merry monarch!” 
said Carolyn, when she had finished Mar- 
garet’s little comedy. “Light as air, bub- 
bling like sparkling wine!”’ 

Carolyn continued then to turn the pages. 
“Here, let me read you this little story 
aloud!” she said. “I’ve^ read it once, but 
it deserves a second reading. It’s the 
most weird, fantastic, delicate, and yet 
tragic thing I ever came across in print. 

As Margaret listened to the reading,^^ a 
strange light came into her eyes. “It 
seems to be rather out of the common,” 
she remarked carelessly. “Who wrote it, 
did you say?” . 

“I didn’t say,” laughed Carolyn., It is 
by that new writer, Frances Fennimore 
Farrington.” Carolyn threw the magazine 
aside. “It’s really great!” she said. “A 
sort of reminder of Hawthorne, with an 
admixture of de Maupassant, but it gives me 
the shivers. I’ll read another one of yours 
as an antidote, if you have one. Any in the 
‘Arlington’ this month?” 

“Yes,” said Margaret, nodding toward a 
table where several periodicals were piled 
one upon another. 

“Why, here’s that woman’s name again, 
and immediately after yours!” exclaimed 
Carolyn. “She hasn’t been long in the field, 
but she is certainly taking up a lot of space 
in it. Scarcely a periodical now but prints 
what people are beginning to call her ‘mas- 
terpieces.’ Now I’ll read this one aloud too, 
and we’ll se what we think of it.” 

“Yes, do,” said Margaret; “but it surely 
ought to be a light story if it appears in the 
‘Arlington,’ for Janies Lloyd has told me 
a dozen times that he will show nothing but^ 
the joy of life in his magazine. I’ve tried 
again and again to get him to admire some 
of my serious work, but he won’t have it 
in fact, he assures me that though I am a 
great comMienne, my serious attempts are 
quite below par.” 

Margaret laughed a bit nervously, then 
settled herself back in her revolving chair 
to listen. “As it should naturally be lighr 
and airy, let me see if Lloyd has found a 
new soubrette who can dance better than 
I,” she said. 

Carolyn teean reading, and before she had 
finished a page of the story, which was en- 
titled “The Sale,” she dropped the maga- 
zine with a gesture of annoyance. 

“It really doesn’t start out like a comedy, 
dees it?” said Margaret quietly, and in her 
quietness there seemed something of bit- 
terness. Carolyn’s eyes filled with tears 
of symnathy. Again she took up the book. 
“Shall I read ’t all?” she asked. 

“Yes,” said Margaret shortly. 

The story was finished, and Carolyn was 
pulling on her gloves. Not a word had been 
spoken since Carolyn had read the words 
“Frances Fennimore Farrington” as she 
turned from the last page. 


“You are thinking, Carolyn, that this wo- 
man writes as well as I, but no better than 
I, when she takes up the great big things of 
life!” burst out Margaret suddenly; “and 
I am thinking that too, and I am remem- 
bering that the things that bear her name 
are published and praised, while those which 
bear mine languish in the pigeon-holes of 
my desk,” and she turned her head, and 
began fumbling angrily with the leaves of 
a rejected manuscript on her table. Then her 
lips touched lovingly a gold button of pe- 
culiar workmanship on her bodice, and 
looking up at Carolyn she said — 

“These buttons are the very first output 
of refined gold from the Margaret Mine!” 

“The Margaret Mine?” repeated Carolyn 
wonderingly. 

“Oh, I forgot!” stammered Margaret con- 
fusedly, then “Carolyn, I should like to tell 
you something, if you will first promise that 
under no circumstances whatever will you 
ever reveal it except with my permission.” 

“It’s not right to make me promise in the 
dark, dear.” 

“But this is a secret, a beautiful secret, 
about myself, and it is nobody’s business.” 

“Then I promise most faithfully to keep 
the secret,” said Carolyn. 

“The Margaret Mine is one of Sam Black- 
more’s mines down in Peru, the Cajamarca 
Mining Company, you know. Look, here is 
a nugget I am going to have cut into poodle- 
dog shape, the very living, speaking image 
of Captain Jinks — Sam said so!” 

“I suppose you think you are telling me 
you are going to marry Mr. Blackmore, is 
that it?” asked Carolyn. 

“Why, yes, I was under the impression 
that I was conveying that idea to your 
mind,” returned Margaret. “We have been 
engaged for more than a year, and we are 
going to be married next year, just as soon, 
in fact, as he gets the mines in perfect run- 
jjtng shape. Carolyn, they’re full of gold, 
heaps and heaps of gold! Oh, think of it, 
Carolyn, eight and ten ounces to the ton!” 

“And do you care so much for gold, 
‘heaps and heaps of gold,’ as you call it, 
Margaret?” Carolyn looked at her curiously 
as though she were trying to probe some 
sudden new mysterious characteristic of her 
friend. 

“You must know, Carolyn, I don’t care a 
farthing about the gold in itself, but for 
what it means to Sam. He and I could 
always make plenty of money for all the 
comforts and even the luxuries of life. But 
the gold is a vindication. It proves to the 
world what Sam and I knew was true. You 
know what they tried to do to Sam, Carolyn, 
you know how the District Attorney ” 

Margaret broke off suddenly. Her face 
had on it a look that made Carolyn Blaine 
afraid. It was the same look which she had 
hidden from her lover on the night when he 
had told her he would release her or she 
must wait, and now she turned her face 
away from Carolyn, who, however, stretched 
out her hands to her in loving embrace. 

“I understand so much now, Margaret, so 
much that has troubled me for a year past. 
Where I have looked for a motive and found 
none, now I see one and I understand!” 

“Motive for what, Carolyn dear?” mur- 
mured Margaret unsteadily. 

“Motive for your attacks upon the Dis- 
trict Attorney and his office. Story upon 
story, article upon article of yours I have 
puzzled over during the past twelve months, 
trying to read between the lines, yet never 
quite succeeding. I ought to have guessed 

T5 


it must all be for a woman’s reason — ■ 
Love !” 

“Well, let us not talk of motives,” said 
Margaret briefly. “The study of motivation 
always hurts my brain, even with char- 
acters in my plays and books, and to at- 
tempt to argue with you upon my own mo- 
tives, their purity or their complexity, 
would be quite maddening. Rather let me 
read to you a bit of Sam’s last letter, 
wherein he gives his unbiased, unprejudiced 
opinion of the works of Frances Fennimore 
Farrington.” 

Her face resumed her look of merriment 
as she drew forth a sheet of paper from 
her secretaire. 

“Will you please send me the weeklies 
for which you are writing, and will you - 
please cease bombarding me with such peri- 
odicals as have those melancholy effusions 
by Frances Fennimore Farrington in them? 
What anybody can see in them I’m sure 
I don’t know, for I And in them not a single 
redeeming quality of style or originality. 
Only one word describes them, and that is 
‘rot.’ I thank God, Margaret, that though 
your own serious and greatest work is yet 
unpublished, and you feel unhappy about 
it, you could not be tempted to write down 
to the catchpenny level of this Farrington 
Fuzzle. It all goes to show that the maga- 
zines are edited by a lot of idiots, who 
don’t know good literature from a patent 

medicine advertisement ” 

Both girls sat back and laughed uproar- 
iously. “Well, Margaret,” said Carolyn, be- 
tween chuckles, “Love seems to be able to 
knock a man silly as well as a woman. 
Sam’s loyalty to you is beyond dispute, 
though I fear his literary judgment is open 
to question! Here’s a Shakespearean 
scholar and University man for you ! So 
muddled and befuddled for love of a wo- 
man who can’t get her own masterpieces 
published that he actually can’t see a re- 
deeming trait in the work of another wo- 
man who does get her’s published. Now, 
do you suppose your devoted lover would 
not see the greatness of this story we have 
just been reading, ‘The Sale’?” 

Margaret shook her head, laughing till 
the tears ran down her cheeks. “He adds 
a postscript to his letter to say that he 
hopes 1 understand that his opinion is abr 
solutely unbiased and unprejudiced!” she 
said blinkingly. 

Carolyn joined again in the laughter. 
Then she added, “You know how I feel 
about your own rejected stories, dear, don’t 
you? I have considered them so great that 
I have believed in all the world you could 
have no rival if only your editors would 
consent to treat you as other than a writer 
of comedy.” 

“And you think now,” said Margaret, not- 
inp- her hesitation, “that I have a worthy 
foewoman; that even if mv own work were 
published, the honours would have every 
chance of being even?” 

“Yes, Margaret. It would not be true 
frieud"hip for me to deceive you. Some 
o^’ th’s woman’s work falls below the stand- 
ard of some of yours, but much of it is 
fully up to the .highest standard even you 
have set for vourself. Margaret, I would 
have you push forward toward the mark 
of your high calling! You have no bread- 
and-butter struggle now as some writers 
have. You have a good income from your 
plays, and will soon be married to a rich 
man. Margaret, do better things than this 

i6 


Frances Fennimore Farrington, and make 
the publishers take them!” 

Margaret took her friend’s face between 
her hands and looked deep into her eyes. 

“Carolyn,” she said, “I promise you I 
will!” 


CHAPTER V 

MISS FARRINGTON DECLINES AN 
INVITATION 

Mrs. Herbert toiled wearily up the 
stairs to the door of her favourite lodger. 
It was a hot July day, and her honest 
English face was even more ruddy than was 
its wont. The red was redder in her cheeks, 
her nose glowed, her chin shone almost 
carmine, and^ her forehead was flushed. 

“It’s that ’ot,” she murmured apologeti- 
cally, when Miss Farrington opened the 
door in answer to her timid knock. Then, 
suddenly collecting herself with some con- 
fusion, she said— 

“Good morning, my lady— that is to say, 
I mean ” 

In her present state of complexion blush- 
ing were impossible to poor Mrs. Herbert, 
so she merely grew more confused than ever,’ 
and her kindly blue eyes took on a fright- 
ened look, for this was the first time she 
had so addressed her lodger in several 
months. 

The lodger smiled somewhat deprecating- 
ly. “Never mind, Mrs. Herbert,” she said. 
tVe 11 let it pass this time, but you know 
I must insist that you abstain from cover- 
ing me with glory and titles. And will 
you sit down a minute? You look quite 
knocked up with the heat.” 

Yes, miss, thank you, miss, hexcuse me 
miss,” stammered the landlady as though 
now determined in one breath to make 
atonement for her slip, and sitting down 
not squarely nor solidly, but on the very 
edge of the chair as one not accustomed to 
sitting comfortably in the presence of those 
whom she termed “her betters.” 

“Yes, miss, it do be that ’ot in this coun- 
try, and it do seem to go to mv ’ead like 
but the front ’all was that full of letters 
and papers for you that I thought I’d better 
fetch em, though, as I know, you don’t 
like to be disturbed this time in the morn- 
ing. And would you please hexcuse me, my 
la— miss, for fetching them in my hapron 
Armet ’avm’ the card tray in the kitchen 
polishing it hup?’ 

Phe scooped from her lap manv letters 
papers, most of them forwarded from 
different publication offices to wh'ch they 
had originally been addressed, and Miss 
Farmngton. placing them on the table, ask- 
ed ber in a tone which certalnlv meant 
that she was exceedingly busv. if there 
were anything else. 

“Yes. your— I mean, ves, miss!” corrected 
poor Mrs Herbert. “A young woman ’as 
been ere these three days runnin’ now, sav- 
in she must see you. and me savin’ vou 
weren’t in. and she. was ’ere again this 
mornin’. Never before would she give her 
name, sayin’ you didn’t know ’er but she 
seemed discouraged like when I said again 
you were hout, so she left this card, and 
says would I try to hinfluence you to see 
’er, it meanin’ so much to ’er to get a hin- 
terview with you in ’er paper before the 
other papers does it. I never did see the 
like of this young lady, or, as I should say 
young person, for haskin’ questions which 
hare not ’er business. Was you tall was 


you young, was you married, what did you 
heat for breakfast, did I know what Heng- 
lish town you coined from, did you comb 
your ’air ’igh or low or medium, and was 
your heyes blue, and was you a good dress- 
er or a dowdy, and would I let ’er sit on the 
’at-rack in the ’all till you come ’ome. I 
hup and told ’er that Your Ladyship would- 
n’t be hinterviewed by hanybody, but that 
she had just ” 

“Mrs. Herbert! You did not say that, 
surely? You did not speak of me as ‘her 
ladyship,’ did you?’’ Miss Farrington look- 
ed very much agitated, as she broke sud- 
denly into the landlady’s narrative. 

Mrs. Herbert wrung her hands. “Oh, my 
lady — I mean miss, hexcuse me, for my ’ead 
did be that ’ot, I didn’t know ’ow to get 
rid of the himpudent person that she was!’’ 

“This is really very serious, Mrs. Her- 
bert, and I must insist that you never make 
this mistake again. Have I not told you 
my name? And in regard to all persons, in- 
terviewers and others, who may call, con- 
tinue to say that I am out, unless you have 
previous instructions in regard to special 
callers.’’ 

There w'as no smile on Miss Farrington’s 
face now. The sweet look had left it. She 
was exceedingly stern, though with her 
temper well in hand. 

“I am very sorry, miss, and I do ’ope 
you won’t leave because I ’ave been that 
stupid?’’ said Mrs. Herbert tremulously. 

“No. I shall not leave on account of it,’’ 
said the lady, bending slightly; “and cer- 
tainly in the main you have obeyed all my 
instructions implicitly. If this young per- 
son comes again, be careful to say that 
Miss Farrington is out, and that she-begs 
always to be excused from appearing in the 
papers.’’ 

Miss Farrington bowed slightly, even 
smilingly, as the discomfited landlady hum- 
bly made her exit, nor could she hear that 
person murmur, as she went puffing down 
the stairs, “But nevertheless and ’owsom- 
ever, she hare a ladyship, and that I’ll take 
my solemn hoath!’’ 

Miss Farrington began opening her morn- 
ing mail, and, as she read through one let- 
ter after another, a glad light was in her 
eyes. Her face was one that seemed to 
need animated thought to show it off to ad- 
vantage. A more observant landlady than 
Mrs. Uerbert might have noticed a certain 
air of self-repression and constraint about 
her lodger. Mrs. Herbert was not only un- 
observant, she was, to a certain extent, de- 
ficient in that curiosity which makes so 
many persons in her walk of life obnoxious. 
She had her own very defined notions of 
what was becoming to her position as land- 
lady to a lodger whom she was convinced 
was of noble birth. Often in her own mind 
she speculated about her lodger, but she 
■ never pried nor tried to pry, Down among 
her pots and stew-pans now she scoured and 
chatted with Harriet, while up above them 
Miss Farrington read letter after letter, 
taking out sundry cheques from envelopes. 
Once or twice she actually pressed the 
cheques to her lips, as she murmured “Re- 
cognition! recognition!’’ Then her smile 
died away, and it was as though her mind 
wandered to another land, where dwelt 
something loved and dearly desired. 

She noted a letter that still remained un- 
opened, and she tore it apart. At the top 
of the sheet was a huge crest and a motto, 
and as she looked at it her face lighted up 


again, and she fairly shook with laughter. 

“Absolutely absurd!’’ she exclaimed. 
“Could one fancy a gentlewoman having an 
elephant like that on her notepaper? Oh, 
these shoddy Americans that would be what 
they are not! But let us see.’’ 

“Dear Miss Farrington, — I have so en- 
joyed your beautiful stories that I want to 
meet you and have my friends do the same. 
Therefore I am giving a small reception in 
your honour at three o’clock on Thursday, 
July 9th, at my country home, address as 
above, where many of my literary and ar- 
tistic friends will be present. I am sure 
you will not say you cannot come when I 
tell you that I have sent out the cards, 
adding, ‘To meet Miss Frances Fennimore 
Farrington.’ And will vou not stay ov-er 
night with us? Take the train from the 
Grand Central as indicated by the enclosed 
timetable, and you will be all right I will 
meet you in my carriage at the depot. 

“Yours admiringly, 

“Mrs. Gregory-Mills.’’ 


Now Miss Farrington was convulsed. “To 
say nothing of the remarkable signature of 
‘Mrs. Gregory-Mills,’ ’’ she exclaimed, “this 
is a most extraordinary letter!” 

She sat down again, and a renewed out- 
burst escaped her. “Really first to have 
sent out her cards, and then tell me not 
to disappoint her, as she has added my 
name to them as the guest of honour!” Miss 
Farrington grow very merry indeed, and ner 
laugh was exceedingly sprightly. It rippled 
and bubbled over, became quiescent and be- 
gan again. Finally she calmed herself suf- 
ficiently to lay the letter upon her open 
desk; then drawing forth a sheet of heavy 
white paper, perfectly plain, she wrote 
rapidly, with a smile that was like a sneer v 
flitting across her face:— 

‘‘Miss Farrington’s compliments and 
thanks to Mrs. Gregory-Mills, and regrets 
that she is compelled to decline her kind 
Invitation for Tuesday, July .. 

‘‘There'” she exclaimed, folding the 
missive into an envelope. “I wonder will 
that impertinent upstart have sense enough 
to know that I have herewith given her a 

^^^Then \rom around her neck she unwound 
a long chain which she wore hidden under 
her bodice, on which hung a man s ring 
of curious workmanship. Down into the 
blue wax which melted over the taper and 
fell to the envelope she firmly pressed the 
seal with which the ring was set. Sud- 
denly she snatched the stick of wax again 
and let some of it fall upon a part of the 
device which she had just pressed upon 
the envelope, and on this melted wax she 
used only a half of the ring’s setting pro- 
ducing thus a most complicated effect. it 
would never do to let this person hunt up 
my coat-of-arms in a heraldry book^ s^h 




^^F^om her desk she went into the bed- 
room, took from the banging closet a smart 
hat of a high crown; then from a trunk, 
svhich she unlocked with a Yale key. she 
Irew forth a long dark coat, made some- 
what after the style of a 
she also took another hat of an 
iifferent style from the one which she 
had just pinned upon her head. The coat 
ind the hat. which was oj such soft and 
pliable straw that it could be bent and 
jompressed into almost any shape or size 


17 


without injuring its appearance, she now 
wrapped together in a neat brown paper 
parcel, and tied it. O^er the hat which 
she wore she drew a motor-veil, pulled 
On her gloves, which were certainly unnec- 
essarily and wastefully long for sleeves 
that reached quite past her wrists, and 
started down-the stairs with her letter in 
her hand and the parcel under her arm. 

She had walked some little distance, and 
was about to turn from the Square into a 
street that should lead to Broadway, when, 
looking back, she noticed a lady leading 
by a long round strap a large black French 
poodle. Suddenly the dog stopped directly 
in front of the house which Miss Far- 
rington had just left, seated himself on 
his haunches, and was evidently refusing 
to stir an inch. Miss Farrington thought 
that the lady and the dog were indulging 
in a heated argument, for the lady was 
shaking a reproving finger in the dog’s 
face, while the dog was holding out in the 
lady’s face a ruffled right paw, his whole 
attitude being one of earnest appeal. Then 
from the place where she stood under the 
shade of a tree, amused at the spectacle. 
Miss Farrington saw the dog slightly 
change his position, plant himself more 
squarely on his haunches, and begin to 
wave his paw up and down while showing 
a long, waggling pink tongue, though 
whether in defiance or merely from pant- 
ing with the heat it was impossible to say. 
Again the lady shook her finger menac- 
ingly, and again the dog’s paw replied as 
menacingly, while a great orange satin 
bow on his head fairly bobbed from side 
to side in , controversy. 

“Dear thing! Dear old thing!” said 
Miss Farrington half aloud, as she hurried 
from the tree and went on toward Broad- 
way. English women of the upper class 
are proverbially fond of dogs, and it was 
quite possible that this one remembered 
a pet of her own in the place she called 
“home,” of which this dog reminded her. 

At any rate, she smiled ever so sadly, 
then sighed, and said again, with a sus- 
picion of tears in her eyes and her voice, 
“Dear thing!” 

Into a large department store on Broad- 
way she hastily pushed her way through 
a swinging door. In this place there were 
many doors for entrance and exit, each 
guarded by a boy, one door even opening 
out upon a subway station, so it would 
not be any wonder if, questioned at clos- 
ing time that night, not a boy could reinem- 
ber having seen a lady answering to Miss 
Farrington’s description leave the store. 

CHAPTER VI 

AT MRS. GREGORY-MILLS’ PARTY 
Margaret Allison looked a most bewitch- 
ing person as she leaned against a vine- 
covered tree in Mrs. Gregory-Mills’ garden, 
with its lawns stretching down toward the 
Hudson. 

Her little Irish dressmaker had outshone 
herself in the planning of the summery 
organdie frock which Margaret had hastily 
ordered as soon as she received an invita- 
tion to Mrs. Gregory-Mills’ ‘party’ “to 
meet Miss Frances Fennimore Farring- 
ton.” 

“I want to look particularly nice and 
unintellectual,” she had said to Miss O’Cal- 

l8 


lahan, as she arrived there breathless one 
morning at the beginning of July, when 
Miss O’Callahan was directing the packing 
and storing away of her belongings pre- 
paratory to two months’ holiday away from 
meditations on frocks and frills. The lit- 
tle woman had at first declared that nothing 
could induce her to remain in town an- 
other three days, had called down impreca- 
tions from her patron saint upon the head 
of her favourite customer, and had ended 
by going into retreat with yellow-fiowered 
organdie and bebe velvet ribbon to match, 
emerging therefrom at the end of two 
nights and two days with a gown that filled 
Margaret’s heart with happiness and her 
mouth with Miss O’Callahan’s praises. 

Miss O’Callahan herself had brought it 
home early in the afternoon of the day of 
Mrs. Gregory-Mills’s party. She had 
slipped the skirt, with its shimmering yel- 
low silk lining, over Margaret’s head, shoe- 
ing off Captain Jinks the while, he having 
taken a sudden desire to embrace his lady 
and give her a proof of his affection. Miss 
O Callahan had fastened the bodice, ad- 
justed the belt with its rosettes of ribbon 
velvet, pinned the white and yellow hat 
upon Margaret’s brown hair that sparkled 
coppery in the sun, then sped her away 
in a hansom-cob to the Grand Central Sta- 
tion, leaving Captain Jinks to the loving 
care of Annette. 


Mr. James Lloyd, the enterprising young 
editor of the “Arlington Magazine,” stood 
beside Margaret near the tree, the two 
having wandered away from the other 
guests, who were deposited in excited- 
looking groups about the lawn. Mr. Lloyd 
was pulling a flower to pieces with one 
hand, a flower that grew tall against the 
tree, while with the other hand he held 
Margaret s silk and lace parasol above the 
white and yellow hat. 

“I wonder you found time to come, oh 
busy man,” remarked Margaret, smiling. 

When I asked you the other day if you 
would be here, you said you wouldn’t, you 
know.” 

‘Well, I do hate these ‘functions’ as a 
usual thing, but at the last minute I chang- 
ed my mind. Then I telephoned your hotel 
thinking ,it would be pleasant if we could 
come out by the same train, but they said 
you had gone.” 

And what made you change your mind?” 1 
quizzed Margaret, mischievously. “An 
overwhelming desire to meet the lioness'? I 
believe you told me the other day that she 
had never done you the honour to call at 
your office.” 

Young Lloyd’s face showed a trace of em- 
barrassment and impatience, and Margaret 
smiled again almost impudently up into his 
very eyes. 


+V. might almost think 

that the citadel of your defiant bachelor- 
dom had at last been invaded, to note your 
Mush, and that you have fallen a victim to 
the charms of your new contributor. I say 
charms,’ for one must suppose her to have 
tnem to a very dangerous extent, when she 
can impress such a conception of her ner- 
sonahty upon an editor who has never seen 
her. Now, shall I give you the benefit of 
my opinion of Anglo-American alliances? I 
happen to have known a great many Eng- 
hshwomen, and I assure you that they are 
r^UyS^^^^ American women that 


She stopped her teasing out of pity for 
the ever-mounting flush upon the young 
editor’s forehead, and he immediately broke 
the silence with 

“I might ask you why you came, consid- 
ering that I once heard you declare that 
you had dropped Mrs. Gregory-Mills for 
good and all, not being able to stand her 
vulgarities!” 

‘‘Oh, I am frank to say I never expected 
to attend another one ot our pushing hos- 
tess’s garden parties after the way she spilt 
herself all over me two years ago, and had 
the impertinence to introduce me to that 
Italian attache as her ‘very dearest friend,’ 
when she had only met me twice in her 
life. But this invitation attracted me. I 
made up my mind to take advantage of this 
extraordinary opportunity to meet this 
Miss Frances Fennimore Farrington, who 
seems to have sprung up rocket-like in the 
literary world. 

‘‘But what puzzles me is that I haven’t 
met Miss Farrington, and nobody else 
seems to have met her. I naturally ex- 
pected to find her standing beside our 
hostess. Instead, Mrs. Gregory Hyphen 
Mills was being supported by her auda- 
cious-nosed daughter on the right, and her 
angular cousin — ^a perfect crime of ugliness 
— on the left, and here it is half-past four, 
and not a word of Miss Farrington have I 
heard, except that nobody has the courage 
to ask where the lady is. If you had the 
slightest regard for my feelings you would 
go and inquire, for if the lioness is not to 
i be exhibited. I shall take myself back to 
H town. I don’t mind telling you that I made 
myself pretty in Miss Farrington’s honour, 
and not for the sake of Mrs. Hyphen Mills 
' or any of her frump following.” 

‘‘You certainly have made , yourself 
pretty!” he said, admiringly, taking a full 
' up-and-down look at her. ‘‘But -is it not 
- somewhat inconsistent for a woman to 
ti make herself pretty for another woman?” 

‘‘I'm not troubled about consistency, 
;1 thank Heaven! I pray always to be deliv- 
ered from the consistent woman and the 
ji just man. They, with their yard-sticks, so 
'! many inches to the foot, so many feet to 
l| the mile — crawling along like measuring 
worms. Don’t ever insult me by thinking 
j for an instant that I would be consistent.” 
j ^‘‘I won’t then,” he laughed, ‘‘which all 
M reminds me that though I hate to bring in 
shop talk at a social gathering, I must take 
I the opportunity of asking you when it is 
! your intention to do that little story you 
promised me so long ago? I have published 
this month the last of your scintillations I 
have on hand, and I beg another sparklet 
at your earliest convenience.” 

‘‘Margaret Allison will sparkle no more 
j for the columns of the ‘Arlington’,” she 
I answered decisively, looking at him with 
somewhat of defiance in her face. 

‘‘I don’t understand,” he said. ‘‘You know 
how I value your delicious humour. Miss 
i Allison. In your own line you have not 
I your peer in this country;' no, nor in any 
other country, that I know o-f!” 

‘‘My own line!” mimicked Margaret. 
‘‘Pray, James .Dloyd, what is ‘my own 
line’!” 

“Humour,” he answered. “You know my 
views about your foolish attempts to work 
outside your field.” 

“That they are below par?” she said 
mockingly. 


“Frankly, yes, since you will have it. 
But your humour — Great Scott!” 

“James Lloyd,” said Margaret solemnly, 
“when next you publish one of my come- 
dies, you will' first have praised and pub- 
lished one of my serious stories.” 

“What do you mean?” he asked in aston- 
ishment. 

“What I have said,” she replied, and 
stretching out her hand for her parasol, 
she turned away from him. 

Just then a lady of spiral tendencies was 
seen shooting hither and thither about the 
lawn. She was followed by the portly form 
of Mrs. Gregory-Mills, in whose hands flut- 
tered a yellow paper, and Margaret and 
James Lloyd joined a half-dozen persons 
who were sitting on rustic seats near the 
house. 

“My dears!” gasped Mrs. Gregory-Mills, 
“I must tell you of my disappointment and 
yours. I hoped for the best until the last 
minute. The fact is, that this morning 1 
received a note from Miss Farrington say- 
ing she was ill, but would try to come. In 
case she could not, she would telegraph. 
Now comes the telegram saying she is 
worse. Really, I do assure you that from 
her note I gathered that she had only a 
headache or something unimportant, and as 
there seemed every chance of her coming, 
and there was no chance to get word to you 
all, I could not put off the party.” 

Mrs. Gregory-Mills fluttered awkwardly 
over to Margaret. “Miss Allison,” she said, 
“I may not have mentioned it in my letter 
to you, but one of the chief things I had in 
mind was a meeting between you and Miss 
Farrington. I said to Mr. Gregory-Mills, 
‘Now, those two girls ought to know each 
other, and I’ll see if I can bring it about!” 

Margaret’s smile was a bit peculiar. “That 
was just like- you, Mrs. Gregory-Mills,” she 
said. “But perhaps another time you will be 
able to bring us together. I should not be 
surprised if Miss Farrington has been over- 
working herself this hot weather — so dif- 
ferent from English Julys. She has turned 
out an amazingly large amount of work dur- 
ing the past few months. I know of no 
other writer who would attempt so much. 
But I didn’t know you were acquainted with 
her until I got your invitation. Did you 
meet her in England? Do tell me what she 
is like?” 

“Now, my dear, there you have me!” 
said Mrs. Gregory-Mills, growing redder 
than the heat warranted. “You see, we our- 
selves haven’t met yet. Personal mutual 
friends, you know — I should say very dear 
mutual friends, indeed, wished me to make 
her stay in New York pleasant, and as I 
know most people who are worth knowing in 
the literary and artistic set, I made up my 
mind I’d do something for her.” 

There was just the slightest uplift of Mar- 
garet’s brow. “Always kind and enterpris- 
ing Mrs. Gregory-Mills” she said, with a 
bit of slyness in her tone, which may have 
escaped the embarrassed hostess, though it 
certainly arrested the attention of Mr. 
Lloyd, who had again taken her parasol, and 
was twirling it back and forth with a great 
showing of disinterestedness. 

“But do you know,” continued Margaret, 
looking about the circle, “it would appear 
that Miss Farrington cannot go out much, 
for nobody yet has spoken to me of having 
met her. It’s^ather a trial to me, too, for 
I am more interested in her personality than 
in her literary ability.” 


19 


“Perhaps Miss Allison doesn’t think she 
has any of the latter,’’ put in a young man 
with a lemon-colored moustache and dreamy, 
grey eyes. His tone had something of a 
biting sneer in it, with a sarcastic turn 
that Margaret could not but note. 

“Oh,” she said lightly, “it would scarcely 
become me to set up my judgment against 
the various critics who have hailed her as 
a modern Hawthorne, a decent de Maupas- 
sant, and an abbreviated Balzac ! What I 
want to know is, whether she is young or 
old, pretty or ugly, stylish or dowdy, light 
or dark. They say she’s English, and her 
manner of expressing herself in print would 
seem to lend colour to that supposition. 

“Is she, then, an elongated exclamation 
point in appearance, straight in front and 
back, with hair done 5. la English royal 
family style, with a very visible invisible net 
plastered over it? Has she got a wide mouth 
and long teeth, or a rose-bud showing tiny 
pearls, and has she got anything to say in 
conversation, except ‘I fancy’ and ‘Really!’ 
and the like? It may occur to you that I 
could write to her and try to make her ac- 
quaintance, but, being English and, I sup- 
pose, sufficient unto herself, she would prob- 
ably ‘thrun me down,’ as Mr. Dooley ex- 
presses it, and so I have looked forward to 
this meeting on the Hudson with more in- 
terest than you can possibly imagine.” 

“Now, Miss Allison, I am happy to say I 
can set your mind at rest — or no, perhaps 
not that exactly ! I mean that having the 
pleasure, and I may add, the honour, of the 
lady’s acquaintance, not to say friendship, 

I am prepared to give you points upon her 
personal appearance.” 

“How delightful!” exclaimed Margaret, 
looking gratefully toward the young man 
with the lemon-coloured moustache. 

“You may well say that,” he said, coming 
over and taking a seat near her. “She is 
entirely delightful, and one of the most 
beautiful young women I have ever met. 
Sitting to me for her portrait, you see, so 
I ought to know!” 

“Ah!” exclaimed Margaret, with the 
slightest start of surprise, but without a 
dimming of her brilliant smile. 

“Yes,” continued he, “she’s tall, the di- 
vinely kind, and slim, and walks like a 
queen, not like her own Queen, mind you, 
who is lame, poor thing! and her voice is a 
sort of ripple. Fair mouth, glorious eyes, 
that you would swear are one colour one 
minute and another the next; and I’ve seen 
nothing like her hair In all New York, 
though it is possible she may wear it a 
little stiff, but no visible invisible nets, as 
you call them!” 

Mr. Hillary Angell, portrait painter to 
the ladies, swelled out with importance as 
he ended his word portrayal of New York’s 
latest literary sensation. Among his in- 
timates he was known to have an accom- 
modating imagination, and those who heard 
his description of Frances Farrington won- 
dered how far it might be correct. Only 
Margaret Allison had any further question 
to ask. 

“And how old is she, Mr. Angell?” 

“Well, of course, you’ll allow I couldn’t 
ask her that, but certainly she cannot be 
more than twenty- five, though she doesn’t 
look more than twenty-two.” 

“Dear dear!” laughed Margaret, and her 
laugh was only half-hearted, “the gods cer- 
tainly must have endowed this woman — 

20 


youth, beauty, and what people are saving is 
a talent approaching to genius. But she 
must have lived widely and largely in twen- 
ty-five years, and most sorrowfully, for her 
pen seems to drop tears continuously.” 

“Yes,” broke in Hillary Angell, “and a 
good thing, my dear Miss Allison, that it 
does, for peonle are saying that if that 
w’oman ever went in for comedy, our leading 
humorous story-writer would do well to look 
to her laurels.” 

Margaret smiled at him patronizingly, 
then with a turn in the direction of James , 
Lloyd, she said with a dare-devil look in 
her eyes — 

“I, for one, shall be most delighted and 
interested to see her try.” 

CHAPTER VII 

THE RIVALS SEEM ABOUT TO MEET 

The month of September was made up 
of successes, disappointments, and surprises 
for Margaret Allison. 

On the night of the third* her new play 
had been produced, and it had immediately 
become the season’s hit. Helen Morton, 
hitherto almost unknown, and considered by 
those who did know her as but a third-rate 
performer in third-rate melodrama, turned 
out to be the most fascinating little come- 
dienne imaginable, thanks to Margaret’s in- 
defatigable drilling during July and Au- 
gust, for Margaret had remained in town 
throughout the whole summer. 

Always when the young actress had ven- 
tured upon “I think. Miss Allison,” or “It 
does seem to me. Miss Allison, that just 
here I should do thus and so,” Margaret 
had clipped her would-be soaring wings 
with — 

“But you are not to ‘think’ on this point, 
and things are not to ‘seem’ to you. Sim- 
ply watch me and imitate me, every move- 
ment of my hand or foot, every twist and 
turn of my head, every variation in my 
voice. You see I not only conceived this 
part and actually lived it all the time i 
was writing the play, but I’m a pretty good J 
actress myself. Now, watch and listen!” 

Then she would go through a part of a 
scene, the eyes of Miss Morton following 
her with close attention, yet with a look 
of something very akin to resentment in 
them. Finally the young woman came to f 
understand that for her to “think” or to 
have things “seem” in any manner differ- 
ent from the conception of Miss Allison was 
an utterly useless exertion on her part, : 
and she became true to the slightest In- 
fiection of the voice and the tiniest gesture 
of her teacher. ' 

Just how the miracle of her success as a \. 
comedy actress had been brought about i 
was not suspected, for Helen Morton had !' 
said nothing explanatory to any of her ! 
friends, and with the exception of Carolyn 
Blaine, Margaret had revealed the secret 
to no one. So, as the nights went on and 
lengthened into weeks, Margaret drew in 
her royalties, and Helen Morton became the 
toast of the town. 

While Margaret rejoiced in the success 
of her play, which she had decided was 
to be the last stage comedy she would ever 
write, a new senstation was sprung upon 
New York. It was a novel, the first book 
by Frances Fennimore Farrington, who had 
now become what appeared to be a bril- 
liant fixed star in the litera^ firmament. 


For more than a month before its publica- 
tion it had been announced daily in large 
type by her publishers as a book of the 
most wonderful power and pathos that the 
house of Benson and Company had ever of- 
fered to the American public. They exploit- 
ed its author as a young hitherto unknown 
genius whom they had ‘‘discovered,” ana 
two weeks before the date set for publica- 
tion, the first large edition had been sold, 
and the printing presses were at work on 
another. 

Events proved that the book had not been 
overpraised in the advance advertisements. 
It fulfilled the most sanguine expectations of 
the critics and the public, who displayed 
the liveliest interest in the personality of 
the author, which, however, she did not 
seem to be disposed to gratify. She was 
said to have declined very firmly but most 
courteously all invitations to appear in 
public, so that while she was the heroine 
of the metropolis, and thousands of read- 
ers were poring over her book throughout 
the United States, few could say that they 
knew her or had ever even seen her. 
Messrs. Benson and Company earnestly re- 
quested her to grant interviews to certain 
reporters, and they desired her to furnish 
them with photographs for reproduction, 
and she declined in a courteously worded 
note to the head of the firm, declaring that 
while her book belonged to the public, 
her personality belonged to herself. 

Her attitude of exclusiveness was thought 
to be most coldly English, and her aloof- 
ness, added to the gossip which emanated 
from a woman reporter who had called 
many times to see her and failed, gave rise 
to the rumour that she was a distinguished 
English lady of title. 

Margaret Allison seemed to follow every 
turn and advance in the career of this wo- 
man, whom she was said to regard as a 
dangerous rival, with a keen and almost 
feverish interest. Much of her own se- 
rious work, which she knew to be of great 
merit, constantly found its way back to her 
from the editors and publishers to whom 
she submitted it, and at about this time 
she had her first really ambitious novel re- 
jected by a dozen publishing houses, among 
them Benson and Company, who had 
brought out the novel by Frances Fenni- 
more Farrington. To be sure, they had 
added to their letter of declination a ridei 
by way of consoler, ‘‘We shall, however, as 
you must know, be much pleased to consid- 
er a novel by you of light or humorous 
vein, if you have anything on hand that 
you would care to submit to us.” 

There was still another sensation in lit- 
erary circles, which also was furnished by 
Frances Fennimore Farrington. The Octo- 
ber number of the ‘‘Arlington Magazine” 
presented her in an altogether new light 
to ts readers — that of a comedienne. 
Light, airy, deliciously snappy and funny, 
the story showed that here was a writer 
who could touch with her pen all sides of 
life, the shallow places as well as tne deep 
ones. Then several other magazines and 
weekly papers vied with each other in ex- 
hibiting her versatility. Now she soared 
among the black clouds; now she turned 
their silver linings out to view. Death! 
Surely this woman had been close to death; 
but life, too — ^joyous, rollicking life must 
have fiown through her veins; and love she 


knew, all unbounding, all-trusting, all-giv- 
ing love. People who read her love stories 
said, ‘‘This woman has passed through the 
gates of the Celestial City, all-triumphant, 
crowned with glory by her beloved!” Hate 
also she knew. Who could doubt that the 
author of ‘‘The Hanging Sword” had gone 
down into and come up out of Great Tribu- 
lation, had known the desire for vengeance, 
the temptation, perhaps the yielding, to 
sin? Men she knew, and women, and little 
children, while no living creeping things 
among the humblest creatures of God seem- 
ed to have escaped her notice, her under- 
standing, her kindly love and sympathy. 

Many of the Sunday and evening news- 
papers .began publishing the little humor- 
ous sketches which she was doubtless en- 
couraged to send out plenteously after hav- 
ing received in July a written urgent invi- 
tation from James Lloyd, editor of the ‘‘Ar- 
lington Magazine,” to try her hand at a 
bit of comedy for his October issue, while 
it was announced later that the ‘‘Arling- 
ton” would very shortly begin the publica- 
tion of a sparkling serial by Frances Fen- 
nimore Farrington. 

There were certain magazines that were 
known among literary folk as ‘‘Margaret 
Allison’s strongholds.” Four of these were 
invaded by the new writer, and the editor 
of one of them sent back to Margaret one 
of the best light stories she had ever writ- 
ten. with a common rejection slip. 

This slip Margaret kept to show to Caro- 
lyn as a curiosity. ‘‘I declare to you, Caro- 
lyn,” she said, handing it to her friend, 
with a half-amused, half-sarcastic smile, 
‘‘this is certainly enough to raise the ire 
of one who had thought she had established 
herself, at least in light comedy. Why, not 
since the days ‘when we were twenty-one’ 
has an editor sent me a rejection slip! 
Now, I ha,>^en’t a nasty disposition, as you 
know, but when I see a comedy of Frances 
Fennimore Farrington’s appearin®' in the 
magazine that has returned one of mine 
with a rejection slip, I begin to feel a sort 
of per ional antipathy to the very name of 
the author of the so-called ‘most success- 
ful book of a decade.’ ” 

‘‘Margaret, that is not at all like you!” 
replied her friend. 

‘‘I admit it’s not like me. It’s not like 
a worm to turn, though sometimes it does.” 

‘‘Margaret, you can’t pass as the humble 
worm, to save your life!” laughed Carolyn. 
‘‘Sitting there before your utterly useless 
but expensive grate fire, in one of Miss 
O’Callahan’s precious hundred-dollar house- 
gowns; thrusting out your wickedly costly 
slippers within a fraction of an inch of 
burning them to a crisp; surrounded by 
every luxury the mind of woman could 
dream; the author of the most payifig com- 
edy that has been on the boards in ten 
years; a nice fat bank account, despite your 
absurd extravagances and philanthropies to 
the unappreciative criminal poor — really, 
my child. I’m afraid I cannot view you in 
the light of a worm that had been trodden 
upon.” 

Carolyn’s eyes twinkled as she helped 
herself to a box of BrummeH’s Best, there- 
by drawing the attention of Captain Jinks 
to the fact that he tvas ravenously hungry 
for a chocolate cream. 

‘‘But, Carolyn, this is like poaching. Not 
content with the reputation she was making 


21 


/ 


as a high tragedienne, it seems she must 
needs take up the comic side of things, and 
show a mean ambition to shine as the 
maker of smiles, the banisher, of tears.” 

‘‘My dear Margaret, it’s the talk of every- 
body who was at Mrs. Gregory-Mills’ party 
last summer that you actually dared Lloyd 
of the ‘Arlington’ to invite her to con- 
tribute some light stories! He has told it 
about town that you said you were through 
writing comedy, anyway.” 

‘‘I never told him that. I said he would 
have to first publish my serious work be- 
fore he got any more light stories.” 

‘‘Well, he thinks you can’t do anything 
but light things, so I suppose he took it 
as meaning that you refused ever to write 
for his magazine again.” 

‘‘Oh, well, I don’t care a snap about 
Lloyd or the ‘Arlington,’ but I promise you 
this, Carolyn, that sooner or later these 
magazines, Lloyd’s included, will publish 
every particle of what I regard as my best 
work!” 

‘‘I believe that, Margaret; indeed, I know 
it!” 

‘‘And furthermore, one of these days I’ll 
make a bold attempt to sweep Frances Pen- 
nimore Farrington from the literary earth!” 
added Margaret, bringing her hand down 
upon her desk with sudden decision. 

‘‘I believe that too, Margaret, and also 
that you will succeed,” returned Carolyn. 

When Carolyn had gone, Margaret spent a 
few minutes in pacing the fioor. It was 
as though she had been curbing her excite- 
ment in her friend’s presence, an excite- 
ment to which she must now give vent. 
Back and forth she strode. Captain Jinks 
at her heels. Long ago when she first be- 
gan her dramatic work she had found it 
very helpful in composing speeches for her 
different characters to speak aloud and 
talk with herself as she worked, and she 
had discovered that talking to herself re- 
lieved a certain nervous tension even when 
she but gave expression to her thoughts 
without reference to writing. So now she 
burst out at first in murmurs, then in a 
well-pitched voice. 

‘‘To think of it!” she said. Her voice 
trembled as she went on. ‘‘A year and a 
half, so short a time since her ^rst appear- 
ance, and look at her now! Oh, your Lady- 
ship!” and she clenched her hands togeth- 
er as though to squeeze the very life out 
of the person she named by the title. Sud- 
denly she snatched her hat and coat, ar- 
rayed herself for the street, and motioning 
Captain Jinks to accompany her, she opened 
the door of her apartment out_into the 
hall, and passed Helen Morton on the thres- 
hold. 

‘‘Oh, are you going out. Miss Allison?” 
said the actress. 

‘‘Yes!” answered Margaret shortly. ‘‘And 
I cannot stop!” 

‘‘I started to come in a few minutes ago'” 
went on Miss Morton, ‘‘but I thought you 
had a visitor, as I heard you talking to 
some one, so I went away, and was just 
returning. Who had the honour of drinking 
tea with you this afternoon. Miss Blaine?” 

‘‘Why should you be interested to know 
the names of my visitors? Did you happen 
to see Miss Blaine or anybody else go in 
or come out?” Margaret looked at her sus- 
piciously. 

‘‘Why, no,” answered the actress. 


‘‘Very well, then, let me bid you good 
afternoon,” and Margaret left the elevator, 
called a hansom, and, whisking into it af- 
ter Captain Jinks, drove hurriedly away, 
first telling the driver to go to Twenty- 
Third Street, and afterwards countermand- 
ing the order when Miss Morton was out 
of sight. Half an hour later, with Captain 
Jinks at her side, she stood on the steps 
of Mrs. Herbert’s house in Washington 
Square. A certain determination shone in 
her eyes as she put out her hand to ring 
the bell, and then she hesitated. A small 
boy passed her. She bought a paper from 
him, waving him away as he offered her 
the change of a quarter. Then she spoke 
.^to the dog, descended the steps, and walked 
away without ringing, stealthily, as though 
she feared she might have been seen by 
some one within the house. 

It was evident that she had started out- 
with a decided purpose to accomplish some 
important act, but whatever it was, she 
did not do it. Back again in her luxurious 
rooms, she sat down and read and re-read 
her latest letter from her lover, the letter 
in which he told her of a sudden necessity 
for him to return for a hurried visit to 
New York at once. 

‘‘Sweetheart!” she murmured, pressing 
the last page of the letter to her lips, the 
page which ended with the sweet refrain of 
a love-song of that land where he dug for 
gold. 

‘‘Adios, Carissima — hasta manana!” 

CHAPTER VIII 
‘‘WHATS IN A NAME!” 

The second winter of Frances Fennimore 
Farrington’s stay in New York was now 
beginning with its early snows and half- 
biting winds. Light stories signed by her 
name were now continuously appearing, and 
she seemed almost to have dropped the 
particular kind of work with which she 
had begun her literary career in New York 
and which had gained for her what looked 
like a lasting fame. Her book, ‘‘The Work- 
ers,” had become the ‘‘best seller” of the 
year, and while editors and the public look- 
ed forward to the production of many books 
of the same style, she seemed to have set- 
tled down, first to dramatize it and then to 
do light stories, as though she had forever 
retired from the world of tragedy, except 
such tragedy as she found in humour. 

Whereas two years before Margaret Alli- 
son’s short stories and novelettes had been 
so sought after that she had found it im- 
possible to supply the full demand for 
them, the place which that brilliant author 
had made for herself seemed now to have 
been taken and more than filled by the 
Englishwoman whose name in the literary 
world was not yet two years old. Hints 
began to be circulated, in the particular 
set to which Miss Allison belonged, about 
the jealousy which that young woman felt 
of the rapid rise of her English rival. It 
was known that when the book, ‘‘The Work- 
ers,”’ had first appeared, the editor of a 
review for which Margaret had done occa- 
sional literary criticism sent a copy to her 
asking that she would give it a two-column 
article of review, and that the book was 
returned to the editor by Miss Allison with 
a note saying that she was not sure she 
was competent to give it an unprejudiced 
criticism and would therefore prefer the 


22 


work to be done by someone else. Also it 
was noticed that in company Miss Allison 
replied only with the briefest remarks when 
asked concerning her opinion of Miss Far- 
rington’s stories, many of her acquaintances 
declaring that always at such times there 
was a questioning, sarcastic lift of her 
brow. 

Few stories of a fictional kind bearing 
Margaret’s name were now seen in print. 
It was said that they were not particularly 
wanted by the various editors, since Miss 
Farrington had demonstrated her ability to 
scintillate far more brightly than Miss Al- 
lison had ever done. Then, too, it was 
shown that the reading public craved the 
new and the mysterious, and there was cer- 
tainly the element of newness and mystery 
about the Englishwoman. She had sur- 
rounded herself with barriers against all 
inquirers after details of her private per- 
sonality. Never an interviewer had got 
beyond the front door of Mrs. Herbert’s 
house, and according to that faithful keep- 
er, the lady was always and forever “hout.” 
There were rumours that she was a person 
of great distinction, that she was the off- 
spring of a morganatic marriage, that she 
was only half English, while the other half 
of her was right down royal. Hillary An- 
gell, who now referred frequently to the 
portrait he was painting of her — on the un- 
derstanding, he said, that it should not be 
seen by any American but himself, declared 
that he knew for a fact that her mother 
was an Austrian princess and her father an 
English nobleman. 

Many of these stories came to Margaret 
through the medium of Carolyn Blaine, who, 
because of her friendship with Margaret, 
had much the same circle of acquaintances. 
In Carolyn’s presence, Mrs. Henry Jack- 
son, a publisher’s wife, had referred to 
Margaret’s “foreign rival’’ and then, turn- 
ing to Carolyn, had asked tauntingly how 
her friend felt to be engaged in a case of 
Greek meeting Greek, and begged to know 
when the tug-of-war was coming off. 

“You might tell her, Carolyn,’’ said Mar- 
garet, when this was repeated to her, “that 
it’s now on!’’ 

It was during this conversation between 
Margaret and Carolyn that the latter pick- 
ed up a magazine, and, rocking back and 
forth, seemed to be trying hard to read and 
understand something it contained. Two or 
three times she threw the book down, then 
took it again, and perused a half page or 
more with curiously knitted brows. She 
seemed to be struggling to get on to the 
finish and then she dropped the magazine in 
her lap with a gasp. 

“Why, what’s the matter?’’ asked Mar- 
garet. 

“It’s one of Frances Farrington’s so- 
called ‘comedies,’ but it’s the most direfuf 
drivel I ever read!’’ replied Carolyn. 

“You’re prejudiced, just as poor dear Sam 
is,’’ said Margaret, laughing lightly. “I do 
not forget that you are my good admiring 
friend, and regard this woman as my rival.’’ 

“Preiudiced! Read it yourself, and tell 
me if you supposed that the veriest tenth- 
rate periodical would publish such rubbish. 
Or. here. I’ll read it to you.’’ 

Margaret listened with tightened lips. “It 
is pretty bad!’’ she said, with a queer 
smile. “But then I’m supposed to be preju- 
diced too!’’ 

“Well ’’ said Carolyn, “here are three 
more of her stories in the new weeklies. 


Let’s read those, and see who’s daft, she 
or we!’’ 

Together they turned the pages of three 
high-class weekly papers, two of which 
were noted for their literary exclusiveness, 
advertising always that they cared not for 
■the name of a writer but for his excellence 
as a literary artist. 

“Margaret,’’ exclaimed Carolyn, “this 
woman was born an idiot, or she’s gone 
suddenly crazy, and so have all these edit- 
ors!” 

Thereafter it certainly did not take pre- 
judice or jealousy to discover the rapid 
decline in the quality of Frances Fenni- 
more Farrington’s work. Carolyn Blaine, 
though not herself a writer, was a critic 
of rare ability and quickness of literary 
insight, and, much as she loved Margaret, 
she could not have been blinded to any 
faults of literary construction or concep- 
tion of plot. She was, as Margaret some- 
times told her, “painfully honest” in her 
criticisms of all the great work of the 
present time and of times gone past. She 
would have appreciated the greatness of 
Margaret Allison’s work if Margaret had 
been her worst enemy instead of her dear- 
est friend. She had seen the wonders of 
Frances Fennimore Farrington’s earlier 
stories even while she felt an unforgiving 
resentment against her for apparently in- 
terfering with Margaret’s progress. 

“Margaret dear,” she said one day, “this 
woman has got to the end of her line, 
which was a short one. Once, you may 
remember, I called her a comet. I will 
now re-name her a rocket. She went up 
like one and has come down" like one. We 
have all heard of the people who are men 
or women of one book or one picture. They 
suddenly startle the world with something 
that passes for genius, and then they sink 
into obscurity and are never heard of again. 
That will be the way of Frances Fenni- 
more Farrington. She has written herself 
out.” 

“You forget her book, which it is said 
she has already dramatized, and which is 
so soon to appear on the stage. And 
you agreed with the critics that ‘The Work- 
ers’ is a great book!” 

“No, I haven’t forgotten it,” returned 
Carolyn. “I shouldn’t wonder if the play 
would be a success. Haven’t I said she 
was a woman of one book? ‘The Workers* 
is the book!” 

Carolyn Blaine was not the only one 
who noted the decline of Frances Fenni- 
more Farrington’s literary powers, but, 
strange to_say, those who noted it, or con- 
fessed they noted it, were not among the 
editors and professional critic. Story af- 
ter story, which could scarcely have done 
credit to the veriest beginner, appeared 
over her signature, and still editors de- 
manded more from her pen. still they an- 
nounced in editorial paragraphs that on 
such and such a page would be found one 
of her “sparkling comedies” or her “heart- 
touching bits of pathos.” 

As for Margaret Allison, she seemed now 
to be devoting most of her time to writing 
for various weekly and daily papers such 
bits of things as she picked up in her 
daily visits to the police courts and the 
various trial proceedings in the Supreme 
Court and that of General Sessions. She 
might often have been seen flitting about in 
the vicinity of the District Attorney’s of- 


23 


fices. She loften lunched at Pontin’s and 
other dowin-town restaurants wnere lawyers 
and judges and icourt officials gathered for 
their hasty midday meals and gossiped over 
various court-room and grand-jury hap- 
penings. 

Many of the articles she wrote were sign- 
ed by her name, although certain things 
she offered as news items appeared as 
reportorial work. She was known about 
Newspaper Row as a great opponent of the 
present American system of prosecuting, 
and most especially as an enemy of cir- 
cumstantial evidence, so editors did not 
wonder that this successful writer of mag- 
azine stories, books, and plays took time 
to write for them ordinary newspaper ma- 
terial, and they gladly accepted it, most 
especially as It always contained the ele- 
ment ot humor for which she was so cele- 
brated. 

Particularly did her articles reveal the 
most secret workings of the District At- 
torney’s office; every mistake he made was 
held up to ridicule, every failure to im- 
dict was held up against him as evidence 
of his misplaced zeal. All that he did 
which he ought not to have done was plac- ' 
ed in simple, humorous detail before the 
reading public, whilst its attention was 
called often to the many things that he 
left undone, and by which, being undone, 
the public suffered. 

And the more articles of this sort ap- 
peared, the more the District Attorney’s 
office “got busy,” frantically busy, till sen- 
sational Indictments began to be of almost 
daily occurrence. At any hour of the day 
public men were liable to be called before 
the Grand Jury to give an account of their 
most innocent doings and show just cause 
why they should not be Indicted, convicted, 
and imprisoned for misappropriation of in- 
surance funds, bank funds, the people's 
funds, put in their keeping. Failure after 
failure for Insufficient evidence ensued, al- 
though many a trial came off which made 
the New York law courts the laughing 
stock of the country and of the world. 

How the newspapers got hold of so many 
official secrets was the problem which nei- 
ther the District Attorney nor his smart 
young assistants could solve. They saw, 
of course, the signed articles of Margaret 
Allison, but she could so change her style 
that they could not detect it in the unsign- 
ed ones that told of strange happenings 
lin jury rooms, of juries “fixed” to a nicety, 
of verdicts arrived at by means of curious 
processes of reasoning. 

The Tombs was overcrowded with prison- 
ers of all classes awaiting trial, and the 
calendars were so full that judges despair- 
ed of ever getting through them, and now 
came an article, fully signed by the writer, 
upon “The Comedy of the Law’s Delays,” 
wuth the true state of things just sufficient- 
ly and humourously enough exaggerated as 
to send it home to the people and set them 
thinking. Then another article followed, 
or rather a story, written in fictional style, 
in which rotten fire-hose and lead-weight- 
ed life-preservers figured most ominously, 
it being pointed out that the manufacturers 
of these articles had never been indicted 
for murder, the story ending with a great 
interrogation point. 

Against all this work which Margaret was 
doing, apparently working almost day and 
night to accomplish the volume of it, de- 


nying herself to visitors, much of the time 
never in her rooms, or, if there, then with 
doors locked and guarded against intrusion 
— against this work of her friend Carolyn 
Blaine one day uttered a protest. 

“Margaret, I don’t like it!” she said. “You 
are making enemies, powerful enemies. You 
are holding up the District Attorney to 
ridicule, you are antagonizing every mem- 
ber of his staff. There is nothing men dis- 
like so much as to be ridiculed, especially 
if they have made themselves ridiculous. 
Stop it!” 

“Well,” answered Margaret quietly, “I’m 
just about ready to stop it, because, for the 
time, at least, I have finished. I’ve done 
a part of my work ; now let the voters do 
theirs when their time comes! But mark 
you this, Carolyn, I have not done one soli- 
tary underhand thing to get my news, and 
I have been absolutely fair and square in 
making my attacks. I have not stooped 
down to pry, but I have risen high to look 
down upon the dealings of the Temple of 
Injustice, where the painting of that calm, 
placid Lady of the Scales hangs above the 
bench, though I have not attacked the 
judges, but the machinery that brings the 
so-called criminals before them. Ah, God, 
that the Lady of the Scales might hence- 
forth look more carefully to her weigh- 
ing !” 

“Margaret, I do feel that you, in your 
enthusiasm, see more wrong than actually 
exists. There are many guilty persons in- 
dicted, tried, and sentenced, and what do 
you do but spend half your income in go- 
ing bail for rascally men and women who 
then jump the bail and leave you to pay 
up! You get situations for the discharged 
convicts or those on parole, and give them 
opportunities to rob people again!” 

“Yes, Carolyn, I do all thjs, and please 
God I shall continue to help my brothers 
and sisters, for I tell you I recognize them 
as such. Most especially now do I feel 
myself akin to all sinning humanity, and 
I say to you frankly that I know many of 
the sins I have not committed have been 
uncommitted because I have not been tempt- 
ed. Oh, the fools that stand up in the 
synagogues and thank God that they are not 
as other men and other women, when they 
have had all their lives but the one thing 
lacking — opportunity, temptation !” 

“You speak strangely, Margaret, but one 
thing I know, that you are blessed, and that 
finally you shall inherit the earth, for truly 
you are meek!” 

The next afternoon after this conversa- 
tion Carolyn was strolling leisurely along 
from a shopping expedition with the in- 
tention of walking to her up-town flat. It 
was Saturday, and she was free from school 
duties, and as Margaret had told her she 
would be too busy to see her all day, Caro- 
lyn walked wherever her mood seemed to 
lead her. Turning from Broadway into a 
west side street, she then turned again and 
went a few blocks south instead of north 
as she had intended doing, and then de- 
cided to go farther on to the fountain in 
Washington Square Park, where she thought 
she recognized someone she knew. This she 
found was a mistake, but being already a 
little tired she sat down on one of the 
benches which the bright sun had dried of 
the preceding day’s rain and slush. Over 
on the pavement across from her she was 
suddenly attracted by the graceful, though 


24 


somewhat striding, walk of a tall woman 
wearing a quiet but smart-looking gown 
of black and white striped broadcloth with 
jacket to match. There was a foreign air 
about the hat which she wore, a rather high 
turban-shaped affair, over which was drawn 
a chiffon veil that fell over her face, which 
so could not be seen with any distinctness 
from Carolyn’s bench. The woman carried 
herself very straight, almost unbendingly, 
and Carolyn found herself wondering vague- 
ly if she could ever stoop down should she 
try. She held her head haughtily, almost 
defiantly, as though some one had disputed 
her right to existence, and she was assert- 
ing it. 

“English as sure as you’re born,’’ thought 
Carolyn. “I could tell the type a mile off— 
her hat, her gown, her walk, the carriage 
of her head, English of the most uncom- 
promising type!’’ 

The woman stopped before an old-fash- 
ioned looking house of red brick with green 
shutters, walked up the white marble steps, 
and let herself into the great white door 
with a latch-key. After the woman had dis- 
appeared behind the closed door Carolyn 
kept her eyes still fastened upon it— just 
why, she did not explain to herself, and how 
long, she did not know, and before she re- 
moved her eyes she saw the door open again. 
Then Carolyn stared, for she saw Margaret 
Allison close the door softly behind her, 
trip down the steps in her jaunty way, walk 
rapidly, as was her wont, along the pave- 
ment, then turn and disappear from view. 
She noticed that Margaret was jvearing her 
newest Russian blouse costume of blue that 
was so becoming to her, a large fur hat 
with trimmings of soft blue ribbons, that 
she wore no veil, that her face was flushed, 
and that she was looking her prettiest. She 
would have called after her, but she remem- 
bered that she was in a public park sur- 
rounded by people, and she did not wish to 
attract attention to herself or to Margaret. 
She wondered mildly whom Margaret knew 
in Washington Square, for she could not 
remember any common friends or acquaint- 
ances they both had in the neighbourhood. 

She got up from the bench and walked 
still farther west, took a surface car to help 
her on the way, deciding that, after all, she 
was not completely fit for walking, and 
thought little more about the woman she 
had seen enter the house, immediately fol- 
lowed by Margaret coming out of it, till, a 
few days later, she happened to remember 
it when calling on Margaret at her hotel. 

“Margaret, do you know anybody living 
in Washington Square?’’ she asked. 

Margaret was sitting at her desk, count- 
ing a roll of money, crisp, new, green bills, 
which she said she was getting ready to 
bank. 

“Twenty, forty, sixty, eighty, one hun- 
dred,” she, was saying. “That’s nine hun- 
dred. Dear me, I must paddle along to the 
bank before it’s closed. I don’t like so much 
money lying about overnight.” Then she 
answered hurriedly, “Oh, excuse me, Caro- 
lyn! Yes, dear, I do!” And she flew into 
her bedroom and grabbed her hat and coat. 

Something in her manner showed Carolyn 
that Margaret did not expect the inquiry to 
be pressed further, and there was a quality 
in Carolyn’s loyalty to her friend that 
would have made it seem to her the gross- 
est treachery even to look in a city direc- 
tory to find out who lived in the house 
where she had seen Margaret come out of 


the door. If Margaret did not want her 
to know, she certainly did not want to 
know. 

It was the same about the rolls of money 
she had seen Margaret counting at different 
times during the past year, and which she 
knew she deposited in the bank. She knew 
that Margaret, like most other writers, was 
usually paid for her work by cheque, yet 
now she seemed always to be depositing not 
cheques but bills. 

And Margaret made no explanation and 
Carolyn asked none. 

CHAPTER IX 
THE CONSPIR.A.TORS 

The average Englishwoman has the repu- 
tation of being a “bad dresser.” Most par- 
ticularly have the French and the Ameri- 
cans the habit of so referring to her. Then, 
immediately, if one raises quizzical eye- 
brows, as though in doubt of the descrip- 
tion as applicable to all Englishwomen, 
your critic of frocks and styles will hastily 
add — 

“That is to say, the untravelled English- 
woman, the middle-class, domesticated, 
stay-at-home Englishwoman! Ah, certain- 
ly, one does not criticize the dress, or the 
manner of wearing it, of the upper-class 
Englishwoman, she who lives in London 
during the Season, at her country place 
during the sultriest weather, and flits about 
hither and thither over the Continent at 
other times of the year. And, of course, in 
the evening — well, she is at her best in 
evening toilette!” 

Now, Mrs. Herbert’s lodger was certainly 
not untravelled, she was not “middle-class” 
in any sense of the word. One could not 
be absolutely sure that she was not “do- 
mesticated,” but the chances seemed alto- 
gether against her being of that order, 
while most assuredly she was not of the 
“stay-at-home” sort, else she would never 
at that moment have been standing under 
a softly shaded gas jet in the sitting-room 
of Mrs. Herbert’s first-floor suite in Wash- 
ington Square. 

It need not be argued that it consequently 
followed that she was a “good dresser.” Let 
the fact merely be stated that she was, as 
she stood there, a magnificent-looking wo- 
man, whose right to move in the very high- 
est circles no one for an instant would think 
of disputing; that she was beautifully and 
becomingly dressed, and most appropriately, 
for it was evening, the hour about eight, 
and she was expecting a visitor. 

Her gown was of soft light blue crepe, 
draped over heavy taffeta silk of the same 
shade, and it clung gracefully to her lithe 
figure, its skirts sweeping the floor with the 
gentlest frou-frou imaginable. Her arms 
were bare, so was her neck, although in 
latest fashion, there depended from the 
straps that fastened the bodice over the 
shoulders long scarfs of what looked like 
priceless lace, such as one finds among the 
heirlooms of the aristocracy of the Old 
World. Around her neck she wore no orna- 
ment of any kind, not even the tiniest neck- 
let. It was as though she knew the beauty 
of her throat too well to spoil it with a 
bauble. Her hair was dressed a bit more 
carefully, perhaps, than usual, but high, as 
always, while a somewhat curious upright 
ornament of gold added to the statuesque 
effect. 

W'hen she h'eard the downstairs bell ring 


25 


she ran quickly to her bedroom, turned on 
the lights surrounding the mirror there, 
seemed satisfied with what she saw, and 
walked back to her sitting-room just in 
time to be standing correctly and confident- 
ly over a chair-back, ready to answer Mrs. 
Herbert’s timid knock. 

“The gentleman, miss!” said Mrs. Her- 
bert, hastily turning and going down the 
stairs, and Miss Farrington held out her 
hand to the man who entered, quickly shut- 
ting the door behind him, as though fearing 
that even his greeting might be heard. 

“Good evening, Duchess!” he said, and 
over the woman’s hand he bowed very low. 

“Can you not look me full in the face and 
say that?” she inquired, with something of 
amusement and tremulousness in her voice. 

“I can, most assuredly!” he said, and now 
his eyes smiled into hers. “You must know 
that I, of all men, will never dispute your 
right to the title!” 

“You gave a name at the door?” she said 
inquiringly, as she motioned him to a chair 
next the one she took herself. 

“Why, certainly! I said to the person 
who opened the door, ‘The name is Saint 
John,’ pronouncing it, of course, in proper 
English style, ‘Sinjun’!” 

His hostess put her hand to her side, and 
laughed almost immoderately, fie joined, 
in a quiet, subdued, griiii sort rt wav Sud- 
denly he seemed to take note of her hands, 
all ringless. 

“Where is your ring?” he asked. 

“It is never away from me," she answered 
with a note of pride and tenderness in her 
voice. “Usually I wear it about my nock 
on a chain. To-night I wear it as an arm- 
let,” and she held up her Avrist, showing it 
encircled with a chain fi-om whi(!h hung the 
ring with which she had sealed the letter 
written to Mrs. Gregory-Mills. 

The man sat back in his chair more com- 
fortably. He was approaching, but had not 
reached, middle age. His hair being very 
light, as was his moustache, there might 
have been a sprinkling of grey in it with- 
out its being noticeable. He had blue eyes 
that smiled half-sweetly, half-sadly, yet 
always humorously. At times one might 
have 'Called his face battle-scarred, so 
plainly did it tell of struggles, some won, 
some lost. He was tall and thin, and 
to look at him one would know that he 
was surely Anglo-Saxon, though whether, 
Scotch English, or American, with descent 
from the two former, it would be impossi- 
ble to say. He wore evening clothes, and 
his manner of wearing them showed that 
he was perfectly at home in the after-sun- 
set garb of the man of the world. For a 
time he sat gazing at his hostess. His 
glance was one of keen admiration, not 
unmixed with tenderness. 

“I don’t know that I have ever seen you 
looking s5 well,” he said finally. “Your 
strenuous work of late has not had a bad 
effect upon you, and you have grown 
younger, not older!” 

“It is good of you to say that,” she re- 
plied gratefully; then changing the sub- 
ject. — 

“To refer to your letter which I re- 
ceived this morning; I want to know when 
is the exact time you will leave this 
country?” 

“The latter part of next week, most 
certainly. You must not count on a day 
after that. How are your affairs? Can 


you arrange them perfectly by that time?” 

“Yes — that is to say, I must arrange 
them, so it seems, to suit your conven- 
ience in the matter,” and she laughed 
lightly. 

“And just how can you arrange things 
so quickly?” he asked. “You spoke of 
England in your letter.” 

“Yes,” she replied. “Why not England.” 

“Certainly England, if you think best,” 
he said. 

“Then I do think best.” 

“What ship?” 

“The ‘Majestic,’ ” she replied. 

He looked at her questioningly, and as 
if knowing his thoughts, she said, “I 
have never been on it. I crossed by the 
American Line.” 

“What about the cheques?” he asked. 

“There can be only one more, and It 
will be here the first of the week, so 
I can give it to you before you leave.” 

“For what amount?” 

“Ninety pounds— that is. I mean to say 
four hundred land fifty dollars. It is dif- 
ficult for me to forget pounds and talk 
in dollars!” and she laughed merrily 

“I can manage that, then, but for Hea- 
ven’s sake don’t take' me unawares with 
any others!” 

“I think I have calculated to a nicety, 
but If there should be any others, I could 
throw them away!” 

“I believe you are capable of it, you feel 
so rich!” , 

“Yes, I do certainly feel rich. Why 
shouldn’t I? Do you know how much mon- 
ey I have made during the past two years? 
Of course you do, though!” 

“What have you done with it?” he ask- 
ed. 

“'That I will not tell you. I might say 
I cannot tell you, to be more polite.” 

“You need not. I have my suspicions, 
however. But the next thing to discuss, is 
what's to be done about Him.” 

“That’s right.” she whispered. “Let's 
agree not to bring in his name this even- 
ing. I believe my landlady and her daugh- 
ter are absolutely honourable and above 
eaves-dropping. but to be safe, let us 
pretend that the walls have ears!” 

“Then to repeat. I ask what is to be 
done aibont Him.” 

“I shall have to tell Him the truth.” 

“An absolutely full confession, from be- 
ginning to end, keeping ba'ck nothing?” 
he asked tauntingly. 

“Yes,” she nodded, smiling. 

“And how do you think He’ll take it?” 

“Now, bow can I tell that, since I never 
had confessions, at least of this sort, to 
make to Him before?” she asked carelessly. 

“You certainly don’t think He’s a man to 
be dealt with lightly, a mam to be trifled 
with? You ought to know him enough to 
understand that when he puts his foot 
down — and He’s got a big foot — something’s 
bound to happen.” 

“Yes,” she said;” “He’s got a big foot, 
but he has also something else.” 

“What do you mean? To what parti- 
cular attribute do you refer?” 

“A sense of humour,” she replied. “I 
look to that to deliver me from th^^ wrath 
to come.” 

“Sometimes that fails a man in great 
emergencies. Let a thing touch him to 
the quick- — I say I’m not absolutely sure 
you cam depend on his sense of humour.” 

26 


“Well, I do depend on it, at least that 
and something else. I need not mention 
the other thing, I suppose?” ' 

“No,” he answered softly, “you need not 
mention it! After all, I doubt not you’re 
safe.” 

They sat now silently. Then he spoke of 
indifferent things, such as the outlook from 
her windows, the people with whom she 
lodged. Sl^e interrupted him suddenly. 

“I had almost forgotten to tell you that 
Miss Margaret Allison has already been to 
this house several times.” 

He jumped from , his chair. “What! 
herself?” he exclaimed. 

She laughed. “Yes, her very own self, 
in her very own proper person. She was 
‘becomingly gowned,’ as the society re- 
porters would put it, in a blue broad- 
cloth Russian blouse suit and fur hat, 
which suited her to perfection, and on 
one occasion the brunette complexion of 
her French poodle was set off with an 
orange ribbon. She happened to be giv- 
ing him an airing, so they both dropped in. 
He was beautifully behaved. He trotted as 
discreetly and as silently up the stairs 
and in and out of the door as though he 
were back in the pickpocket business.” 

“I should say you have been most in- 
discreet, it you ask me!” he remarked. 

“But you see, I didn’t ask you!” and she 
laughed tantalizingly. 

“Might I ask how Miss Allison contrived 
to amuse herself while calling here?” he 
asked. 

“Yes, though I hardly think I can re- 
peat her whole conversation. She talked 
almost incessantly in her quaintest Amer- 
ican fashion and with her strongest Amer- 
ican accent, and once in a while I an- 
swered her in my choicest English.” 

They both laughed. It was nearly ten 
o’clock. He rose to go, drew on his over-' 
coat, and extended his hand. 

“I will go down to the door with you,” 
she said; then added, “Something else I 
almost forgot to mention. The last time 
Miss Allison was here she walked directly 
into Hillary Angell, as she turned away 
from the house.” 

“You mean the artist who is painting the 
invisible portrait?” 

“The very same!” she replied. 

“Do you consider it wise to have allowed 
such a thing as that to happen?” 

“It was not a question of my allowing it. 

I did not arrange it. It simply happened. 
One of those coincidences that nobody can 
prepare for. I should call it most unfor- 
tunate, but it cannot be helped. Of course, 
Mrs. Herbert would have told him I was 
out when he rang the bell, in any event.” 

They were now at the outer door. “The 
‘Majest’c.’ ” then you say?” He turned the 
knob and paused. 

“Most certainly the ‘Majestic!’ Of course, 
you understand that ” 

“I understand perfectly,” he interrupted, 
as though fearing that someone might be 
listening, and then with a good night, he 
descended the steps and hurried away. 

Upstairs in her room, his hostess of the 
evening smiled, then brushed away a tear 
as she prepared for bed. At midnight she 
was still awake, with head buried among 
her pillows, as though in fear that any 
sound she might make would be heard by 
the occupant of the next room. 


CHAPTER X. 

“GOLD, GOLD, GOLD!” 

In the bow window of Margaret’s draw- 
ing-room at the “Illington” stood Samuel 
Blackmore, his boyish face ruddy, smiling, 
his eyes alight with the joy of re-union. 

His stop in New York for the present 
was to be but two weeks. He had returned 
to give some personal attention to the New 
York end of the Cajamarea Mining Com- 
pany, and to escort to Peru three of the 
directors, who were going down to look 
over the operations, inspect the machin- 
ery and the men engaged in extracting gold 
from the earth, and to see with their own 
eyes such rich ore as they had not dreamed 
of. 

For now the Cajamarea Mines were the 
most talked-about mines in all South Amer- 
ica, the company was the most go-ahead 
and successful mining company in New 
York, large dividends were being declared 
to the stockholders, and leading members 
of the company had become men of wealth, 
and Sam Blackmore himself was a mil- 
lionaire. 

While Sam looked about him, smilingly, 
lovingly, Margaret sat upon the floor in 
the midst of the trophies he had brought 
her. The rooms were a little of vicufla 
furs, softer than down, more beautiful than 
any furs she had ever before seen ; there 
were Peruvian huacos, which for centuries 
had lain in the earth of the Andes and 
surrounding country, companions of the 
Inca dead. The Jiuacos were of pottery 
ware of curious construction, old necklaces 
and ornaments of gold and silver, armlets 
which had been buried on the wrists of 
maidens and matrons who had lived and 
died in the golden age of the Incas. There 
were great jars crudely embossed by the 
Peruvian workers, ere Pizarro conquered 
and robbed them, rewarding them with this 
particular brand of Christianity. Into 
these jars Margaret poured water, and 
made them glorious in the pink bloom of 
wonderful roses and carnations which her 
lover had or(^ered to be sent in to her re- 
gardless of cost. 

At times, in the midst of her pretty task, 
she would stop and wrap herself about 
with yicuna skins, till she looked like a 
bright-eved Esquimaux, peeping out mis- 
chievouslv and crying: 

“Oh. Sam. success is so glorious, happi- 
ness is so glorious. weaUh is so glorious, 
when thus it comes, and you are so alto- 
gether glorious!” 

Then his arms would fold her up, his 
hands pushing back the fur robes from 
her hair, while he buried his face among 
its locks. 

It was their delight to load down Captain 
Jinks with gems and then listen to them 
rattle as he bounded in and out from room 
to room, the old Inca chains wound about 
his black neck bv way of collar, his ruf- 
fled naws encased in antique chased gold 
bracelets. 

There were rich laces from the old Pe- 
ruvian convents, hand-work of Spanish 
nuns two centuries dead, who had gone 
blind over the making of the fine drawn- 
work of these wondrous altar cloths, bap- 
tismal towels, and pr’estlv robes. There 
were mantas, too. of the richest black silk 
crepe, still the national out-door garment 
of the Peruvian women. 

Margaret disengaged herself from her 


furs and her lover’s arms to drape herself 
in one of these heavily embroidered gar- 
ments, which were simply large pieces of 
the crepe several yards square. She stood 
before the great pier-glass of one of her 
doors, winding the silky thing about her 
neck and shoulders, letting it fall grace- 
fully to the hem of her skirt. Now she 
looked nun-like, with face and figure un- 
relieved by a touch of white. She had never 
been in Peru, had never seen a woman so 
diessed, yet when Sam looked at her he 
exclaimed — ^ 

“A Peruvian, I swear it! How did you 
know how to do it?” 

“You described how the women wore it, 
you know,” she replied, smiling coquettish- 
ly. “So I have draped it properly?” 

“Si, Senorita bonita, ah!” he cried de- 
lightedly. 

“Si, Senor!” she answered with a perfect 
Castilian accent and the pretty little ges- 
ture peculiar to Spanish women when they 
are pleased with a compliment. “Muchas 
gracias!” 

Then snatching one of the banjos he had 
brought her, she threw back her head and 
began to pick the opening bars of “La Pal- 
oma,” her white fingers thrusting them- 
selves in and out among the folds of the 
manta that draped her arms. Her voice 
was low and clear, and when she began to 
sing Sam Blackmore felt that never had 
Peruvian or Mexican maiden sung so beau- 
tifully to her lover. 

“1 shall dance, no,” she said suddenly, 
mimicking the broken accent of a Spanish 
girl speaking English. Her dark eyes 
shone, her white teeth gleamed, her cheeks 
showed a soft pink against the black crepe 
that encircled them. Now she danced a 
dance of Spain, the pink of her cheeks be- 
coming brighter, as her figure swayed back 
and forth to the strains of the banjo. Cap- 
tain Jinks, all bejewelled, joined her. In 
and out among the laces that strewed the 
floor, the furs, the huacos, the solid silver 
jugs and basins gathered from the pawn- 
shops of various Peruvian towns, swayed 
the girl and the dog. 

Clearly in loverly mood was Margaret 
Allison. It was almost two years since she 
had seen her lover, he who had departed 
from his own land with a cloud hanging 
over him. She had waited patiently for 
this day when he should return to her 
vindicated, successful, and now that he 
had come her joy lept into song and dance, 
and she was spendthrift with kisses and 
caresses. 

“And to think that you have to go back 
again before we are married?” she said 
impetuously when the dance had stopped 
and she was standing beside him in the 
bow window. 

“Yes, that’s the very devil!” he replied 
dolefully. “But, after all, Margaret, it’s 
not so long, that is to say I try to think 
it’s not so long. Ten weeks from now I 
shall have been down there and settled 
everything in such shape that my assistant 
will be running things smoothly and shall 
be on my way back to New York again. 
At the very most ten weeks — God speed 
those weeks, little girl!” 

“Yes, God speed them, Sam!” she an- 
swered. 

Sam began strutting up and down the 
room. “I say, Margaret,” he burst out. 


“it’s a perfectly dandy thing to be rich, 
to feel that you can walk out and buy a 
department store or a machine shop, or 
the fastest horses or the sportiest dogs- 
No, no! Forgive me, old fellow!” he cried, 
stroking Captain Jinks’ ear. “Not a soli- 
tary dog but you— no rivals in your line!” 

“Do take off your overcoat, Sam,” ex- 
claimed Margaret, apparently for the first 
time noting that he was encased in a fur- 
lined coat of huge dimensions. She began 
tugging at it. “It’s vicuna too, isn’t it?” 
she asked. 

“I should say it was! You remember I 
wrote you I was sending my miserable and 
despondent tailor enough skins to stock his 
place, with an order to have this coat done 
for me when I arrived? Oh, Margaret, the 
little man’s face fairly beamed when I 
paid him up the whole blamed bill for the 
past five years with compound interest. I 
do love to pay a debt that people consider 
bad, I swear I do! I love to disappoint 
people in that way. He’s got skins to 
make you a tobogganing set as soon as 
you’ll let me give the order. See here, why 
not let me give it now, so they’ll be ready 
when 1 get back?” 

“Then you’ll have to tell him we’re en- 
gaged, for I’d have to go to be fitted,” 
objected Margaret. “No either our engage- 
ment is to be kept absolutely secret till 
the very marriage day, or I’ll marry you 
now and accompany you to Peru. Take 
your choice!” 

“You know I’d take the latter quickly 
enough if there was a decent place to put 
you at the camp, or if there wouldn’t be 
the handicap of the three directors who 
are going down with me. Well, the little 
man can hold on to the furs until further 
orders, I told him they were for some- 
thing important later on.” 

His face half clouded over, then it lighted 
up again. “Margaret,” he said, “what in 
the name of Heaven are we going to do 
with all the money? Of course. I’m set- 
tling a stiff bit on you for dowry, and I’ll 
build some sort of institution to house 
lazy ex-convicts in if you suggest, and I’ll 
endow the Home for Lost Dogs in the name 
of Captain Jinks, and I’m lending right and 
left to every l-ard-up friend I’ve got, but 
I’d like to be judicious up to a certain 
point.” 

“Judicious, you!” Margaret laughed mer- 
rily and tossed his hair from his forehead. 
She patted him on the head, grabbed his 
fingers and intertwined them with her own, 
and with the disengaged hand flung to Cap- 
tain Jinks a chocolate cream, which she 
found mashed all untidily in the fur-coat 
pocket. “Always carry chocolate creams 
for the poodle dog,” murmured Sam apolo- 
getically, noting a little disdainful look on 
Margaret’s face as she fished it out. 

“Margaret,” he said suddenly, stretching 
one of his hands over* to a chair, whereon 
lay some of the presents he had brought, 
and picking up a large square white cloth 
which peeped out from among the black 
mantas, “I’ve got a little story to tell 
you, a sad, heart-rending little story, con- 
nected with this white manta. You have 
noticed, perhaps, that it is of coarse ma- 
terial, only a half-wool merino, and the 
other half cotton.” 

“Yes,” she answered, “and I didn’t know 
it was a manta, for I thought they were all 


of black, and I wondered why you brought 
this to me.” 

“For the story’s sake,” he said. 

‘‘And now for the story, the sad little 
story,” said Margaret. 

He pushed the black manta back from her 
head so that he might pass his hand over 
her hair, lightly, caressingly, and began: — 
‘‘One day, a few months ago, I was with 
two or three of the other men, including 
little Padre Pedro, of whom I’ve written 
you so much, taking a trip a few miles off 
from camp, when we noticed something 
white ahead of us, fallen among a clump of 
cactus. When we got up to it the ‘thing' 
proved to be a Peruvian girl of what you 
might call the peasant class. She might 
have been eighteen or twenty, not more. 
She had this white manta wrapped about 
her just as all the other women wore their 
black ones. I ran to her at once, for I saw 
she was ill, and Padre Pedro followed me, 
crossing himself violently, as though he 
were trying to ward off the devil. The girl 
was conscious, and as soon as she saw 
Padre Pedro she began rolling her head 
back and forth, and saying in Spanish, 
‘Take it off. take it off! Father, absolve me 
before I die!’ 

‘‘While I was trying to make the poor 
thing take some brandy from my pocket- 
flask I asked her what it was she wanted 
to have us take off, and she touched the 
white manta she was wearing. I started to 
unfasten it, thinking it was binding her in 
some way, when I noticed lying near her a 
dead baby. I went on fumbling with the 
manta till she explained that it must be 
Padre Pedro who took it off, and he kep\ 
shaking his head. I yelled to him to take 
it off, if she wanted him to, or I’d wring 
his neck, and still the little priest refused. 
He explained that the white manta was a 
penance imposed upon her by some other 
priest for loss of chastity, that the dead 
baby at her side must be illegitimate. It 
seems it is a common thing in Peru for a 
girl who has been betrayed or a wife who 
has been unfaithful to have a white manta 
given her to wear as a penance by her con- 
fessor. It is never worn, I believe, except 
for that reason. It is like the mark of 
Cain or the Scarlet Letter of the old Pur- 
itan days. It is to be worn and seen by 
all that the wearer may be shunned. 

‘‘So this poor little thing, wandering like 
a leper over the Andes, had been wearing 
the white thing ever since she had con- 
fessed her baby had been born, and now she 
was dying ‘in the belief that her sin was 
unforgiven unless the white manta were 
removed. Padre Pedro said he would ab- 
solve her, but he could not remove the man- 
ta for some absurd reason. There seemed to 
be some tradition or superstition that she 
must die in it, and she believed she would 
go to hell if she did die in it. While I got 
the brandy down her I turned on Padre 
Pedro my most convincing string of Span- 
ish oaths, and commanded him to both ab- 
solve her and take off the manta, and I 
scared the little priest so that he did it 
with all speed. Thank Heaven the girl un- 
derstood that it was removed before she 
died, and she also seemed to understand 
that I was the cause of her forgiveness, 
for she kissed my hand, instead of Padre 
Pedro’s, when the ceremony was over, and 
half an hour afterwards she was dead. 


‘‘We had a few digging tools with us, and 
while two of the men went to the camp and 
knocked a rude box together and brought 
it over to me, I dug a grave, and we buried 
the girl and her baby, Paare Pedro seeing to 
it that she had all the rights of his church. 

I had Felipe wash the white manta and dry 
it in the sun, and I saved it for you to help 
me tell the little story.” 

Sam had ceased speaking now. There was 
a gulping in his throat, a tear on Mar- 
garet’s cheek, as she passed her hand over 
the coarse white cloth. Then he went on. 

“A few days afterwards I found that one 
of the men who had seen the girl die, a 
Chilian digger who had left our party 
without saying a word, and on whom I 
had noticed the girl’s eyes were turned once 
in a soft, beseeching sort of way, was the 
father of her child. He had run off from 
her to our mines, and she had walked 
clear from the town of Cajamarca, hoping 
to find him and get him to marry her be- 
fore the baby should be born. It’s too long 
a story to tell you how we made sure of 
this, but when I learned the truth without 
the shadow of a doubt, I happened to be 
standing near the entrance of the Maria 
Mine with a pickaxe in my hand. The Chil- 
ian swine passed me. I saw again that poot 
little girl in her white manta with her 
dead baby, and murder was in my heart, 
and I swung that pickaxe toward her be- 
trayer with every intention of braining 
him ” 

Sam wiped the perspiration from his 
brow as he hesitated, and over his forehead 
Margaret’s hand passed lovingly. 

‘‘And did you kill him?” she asked 
quietly. 

‘‘No, Margaret. Padre Pedro and Law- 
rence, the Englishman from Kent that I’ve 
told you so much about, sprang forward 
and gave me a push that sent me three feet 
to the left, diverting the direction of the 
blow, and the pickaxe struck against a rock 
instead of the Chilian’s skull.” 

‘‘And so he lives,” said Margaret, and. 
now her hand smoothed back her lover’s 
hair. 

‘‘Yes, I presume he lives, but, oh, he’s 
striped and starred and limp and lame," 
said Sam. ‘‘Padre Pedro took up one of 
the disused mule-beaters, and laid it on to 
him thick and fast, while Lawrence pinned 
me down by his British bulldog strength, 
and the fellow was got away from camp.” 

Sam slipped from his chair and, with 
knees on the floor, buried his face in Mar- 
garet’s lap. 

‘‘Margaret,” he said brokenly, ‘‘that ex- 
perience has taught me the truth of one 
of your theories that I used to com- 
bat — your theory that every one of us is 
a potential murderer. I’ll never deny it 
again. I intended to kill that man.” 

‘‘And if you had, dear, do you think I 
would have considered you a criminal, that 
I would have loved you the less, that I 
would even have blamed you?” she asked. 

He lifted his head and laoked into her 
eyes. 

‘‘Nol” he said. 

Margaret got up, folded the white manta 
into a small roll, tied some white cord 
about it, and, unlocking one of the drawers 
of her desk, laid it away gently and rever- 
ently. 

‘‘In loving memory,” she said softly, and 
as her eyes met his Sam Blackmore saw 

29 


that through her tears the smiles were 
breaking. 

“Margaret,” he said after a while, “what 
are you writing now?” 

“A book, dear, and your little story has 
helped me with it. It is a great big, human 
book, to be called ‘The Brothers.’ It is to 
show that we are all brothers in sin. I 
expect I shall have finished it before you 
are back, so it will be off my hands when 
we are married.” 

“Heavy?” he asked, smiling. 

“No, not heavy, but serious, if you will, 
that is to say, tragedy that dogs slowly 
upon the heels of comedy, and comedy that 
trips lightly in the steps of tragedy. That 
is life, you know, Sam,” she added, drawing 
near to him the hassock which she was sit- 
ting upon. “It is the biggest and best 
thing, from every point of view, that I 
have ever attempted. I feel within my 
soul as I write it that it is a great and 
powerful book. I can’t help knowing when 
I touch the very pulse of life. It is not 
egotism to know when one has done good 
work, big work, do you think so, Sam?” 

“Egotism!” he cried. “Why, Margaret, 
you are the meekest woman I have ever 
known! But, oh Little Genius, what shall 
we do with these great heart-throbs of 
yours? Are you any nearer the goal than 
you were two years ago, sweetheart? You 
seem to have stopped writing comedies for 
the magazines — only for me you write your 
light and airy trifles, and I don’t mind if 
you don’t want them published. God knows 
there’s no reason now why you should 
touch their miserable magazines with a 
pair of tongs if you don’t want to, but I 
know you’ve been working at something 
since I’ve been away. Out with it! What 
is it?” 

“Oh,” she said, smiling, “my work has 
been interminable, though not all of it haa 
been printed.” 

“See here, Margaret,” he said, jumping 
up preparatory to leaving, “has this nev» 
writer. Prances Farrington Fennimore, or 
vice versa perhaps the name is, hindered 
you in your career in any way?” 

“I should hardly say she has hindered 
me, dear. How oould she hinder me?” 

“Well, her absolutely rotten, senseless 
trash is published, while your big work is 
refused. Well, the publishing trade beats 
me! What do people see in her stuff?” 

“Now, Sam, that’s not worthy of you, nor 
of your literary judgment. Miss Farring- 
ton has done some fine work of a serious 
nature, and I thought you liked comedy, 
too, Sam. She has done some sparkling lit- 
tle stories ” 

“You call that story in the ‘Arlington,’ 
‘The Bell-Hangers,’ sparkling?” he asked. 

“No, I call that unutterably bad work, 
but all has not been like that,” 

“All the same,” protested Sam airily, “I’ve 
tried my best to laugh over some of her 
stuff in the magazines you sent down to 
Peru, and for the life of me I couldn’t crack 
a smile over them. As for her serious work, 
it’s a lot of bathos. It’s because you are 
the most merciful woman on earth that you 
can see any good in it. Justice couldn’t 
find a sentence that makes even decent 
grammar of it!” 

“Sam!” exclaimed Margaret in amaze- 
ment. 

“True!” said Sam. “And people are saying, 


so I hear, that she knocked you out of 
your pet magazines, even in comedy — oh, 
Lord!” 

“Sam, you are absolutely comical in your 
loyalty! Would you expect me to condemn 
all other mining engineers because you, are 
a first-rate engineer and because I love 
you? I say, old man, would you? May I 
not admire the engineering of the English- 
man, Lawrence, and still know that you 
are a wonder?” 

“Of course not! I mean of course you are 
to admire Lawrence! But if you understood 
engineering, and Lawrence did bad, blamed 
fool work, you wouldn’t admire him, would 
you?” 

He began pulling on his beloved vicuna 
coat. “I say, Margaret,” he exclaimed, 
“I’ve just thought of a scheme — big fool I 
that it never came to my mind before! Of 
course your Brother story-book will he 
published! Of course, all the great short 
stories you’ve been doing will be published! 
Gee whiz, sweetheart! I’ll buy you one!’ 

“One what, Sam?” asked Margaret won- 
deringly. 

“One magazine!” 

He threw his overcoat on the floor in 
his excitement, and began playing ball with 
a round nugget charm which he took from 
his watch-chain. Captain Jinks leaping al- 
most to the ceiling in his -efforts to catch 
it. 

“One magazine!” repeated Margaret, 
laughing until the tears rolled down her 
cheeks. “Oh, Sam, you are the delight of 
my heart, you are so funny!” 

“The Magazine, then — three, a chain of 
magazines, reaching from Maine to Cali- 
fornia! Ye gods! The power of mo^ney! 
And they shall run your big books serially, 
and publish one of your little stories to 
break the hearts of their readers every 
month, and as for this Englishwoman in- 
vader! Money! Margaret, why in the 
name of all that’s common-sense didn’t you 
suggest this scheme when I told you I 
didn’t know what to do with the millions? 
Here is my own sweetheart with but one 
wish ungratified in the world, to have her 
big things printed, and me with odd-mil- 
lions in hand and many more in prospect! 
Let me smoke two cigars on that!” and 
into his mouth went two Havanas at once, 
while he puffed first on one, then the other. 

Seated at a little distance from him Mai- 
garet was shaking with mirth. He turned 
on her. “You don’t think it’s a joke, do 
you?” he asked plaintively, throwing both 
cigars into the grate. “I swear, Margaret, 
I’m going to buy a chain of magazines, and 
if there are none for sale. I’ll start some 
new ones.” 

“Sam, you don’t mean that you are se- 
rious?” she gasped, suddenly sobered with 
the solemnity of his face. 

“Why, to be sure!” 

“Then you must not dream of it! How 
could that help me to the recognition I 
want? My work must be published for its 
merit’s sake alone.” 

“It will be! It’s only the editors, blind 
and dead in sin, that don’t see its merit. 
The world will see it quick enough, once 
give the world a chance. The public isn’t 
the fool the editors try to make out it is. 
Now, Margaret, I know what I’m about! 

It needn’t even be known that you or I 
have anything to do with it.” 


30 


“Sam, you must not! I tell you, I don’t 
wish it, and if you do it, I will not offer a 
single story to any of your chain to pub- 
lish, so there!’’ 

He turned a disappointed face to her 
merry one. “Promise me, Sam!’’ she said 
as they kissed. 

“Oh. all right. I’ll promise anything that’s 
for your happiness!’’ he said, with pouting 
lips, for all the world like a disappointed 
boy, and with her arms around his neck, 
she sent him away with a laughing kiss 
upon the tip of his nose. 

He jumped into a cab, and chuckled all 
the way back to his hotel. “I didn’t tell 
her 1 wouldn’t buy some magazines, and 
she’ll never know! I promised ‘anything 
for her happiness,’ and if this isn’t for her 
happiness, I’d like to know! I wouldn’t 
tell her a lie, I hope!’’ 

Assuredly “money talks,’’ and in whis- 
pers, at that, when so bidden, and it hires 
all s'^rts of conveniences for facili'^ating 
the gathering of quick knowledge of shaky 
business concerns. The next night Sam 
Blackmore held in his hands a list of every 
purchasable publishing property in New 
York. When he came to the name of (me 
firm his eyes bulged with a pleased sur- 
prise, then he actually danced with glee 
up and down his rooms. 

The name was that of Benson and Com- 
pany, publishers of the “Arlington Maga- 
zine” and of many well-known books, 
among them “The Workers,” by Frances 
Fennimore Farrington. At this entry he 
found the addendum “On its last legs!” 

Then Samuel Blackmore lighted three 
cigars, and tried his very best to smoke 
them simultaneously. 

CHAPTER XI 

SAMUEL BLACKMORE, PUBLISHER 
It was four days since Sam Blackmore 
had got his list of the publishing concerns 
that were either on the market or willing 
to be on it. He had not allowed an hour to 
be lost in coming to his decision as to 
which one to purchase, for time to him was 
more valuable than money, since he was 
now almost due to return to' Peru on his 
flying trip before his marriage. 

On a Monday evening after his return 
fiom dinner and a long drive with Mar- 
garet, he sat before a mahogany writing- 
table in his suite at the Hotel Algona, pen 
in hand, writing-paper spread before him, 
pipe in mouth. Again and again he dipped 
his pen into the ink, settled himself more 
comfortably in his chair, and yet accom- 
plished nothing in the way of the letter he 
was evidently bent upon writing. 

Strewn about on the table were vari- 
ous documents containing long lists of fig- 
ures, and any one familiar with publish- 
ing accounts would know at once that 
these documents were statements concern- 
ing the assets and liabilities of a house 
with large interests. When finally he had 
settled himself for what he believed was 
a real inspiration for the letter he de- 
sired to write, there was a tap on his 
door which announced John Henderson, 
now on a visit to New York from Cincin- 
nati. 

Henderson was looking particularly gay 
and debonair. “Eleven o’clock, I know, 
Sam,” he said, “but just thought I’d drop 
in for a few minutes. Hum! What’s 


up?” He had drawn a chair near the writ- 
ing-table, and pointed to the papers strewn 
about it. 

“Why, only this, Henderson,” replied 
Blackmore, “that I’ve gone and bought 
the whole blamed business.” 

Henderson stared. “What business?” 
“Benson and Company, Publishers!” ex- 
plained Sam, pointing to the letter-head 
of the very paper upon which he was be- 
ginning his epistle. ‘If you have any deal- 
ings to make with Benson and Company, let 
me inform you that I am IT!” 

“Great Jehosophat! What in the name 
of Heaven do you know about the publish- 
ing business, and what on earth do you in- 
tend to do with it now you’ve got it?” 

“Now, Henderson, a publishing house is 
ostensibly for the purpose of publishing 
books and magazines, isn’t it? I didn’t buy 
the thing to play with, but to work with.” 

“See here, Sam, you need a guardian. Much 
money has made you mad. One might think 
you were a schoolboy of sixteen with five 
dollars to spend, instead of a man of thirty- 
five with five millions. Would you mind 
taking me enough into your confidence to 
tell me just what you are going to do with 
this plaything?” 

“I’ll tell you what I intend to do with this 
work-think! I’m going to publish Mar- 
garet’s books with it, and I’m going to 
print her heavy stories in the ‘Arlington,’ 
and I’m going to dispose for good and all 
of that Englishwoman’s book called ‘The 
Workers,’ and I’m going to see that no more 
of her fool light stories or her rotten serious 
ones appear in the ‘Arlington Magazine.’ 
That’s exactly what I’m going to do. Fur- 
thermore, I’m going to give Benson and 
Company to Margaret for a little wedding 
present.” 

Henderson went off into roars of derisive 
laughter, while Sam glared at him fiercely, 
his war-look tremblinar in the light breeze 
that came in through the open window. 

“May I ask,” said Henderson, when he 
had sufficiently calmed himself to speak, “if 
you have consulted Margaret about this lit- 
tle deal, and if she approves of having such 
a white elephant put on her hands for a 
weddin-^ gift?” 

“I have not consulted her, and she knows 
nothing about it. That is to say, I did sug- 
gest to her that I buy a magazine, so her 
best stories could be given to the world, 
and she vetoed the whole idea, and asked me 
to promise not to think of such a thing, and 
said she wouldn’t write for the magazine 
if I bought one. Then I suggested to her a 
whole chain of magazines, stretching from 
the Atlantic coast to the Pacific slope, 
with branch offices in Paris, London, and 
Constantinople, and she said she wouldn’t 
have ’em.” 

“Just what I expected,” grinned Hen- 
derson. “Margaret is a square girl. She 
wants her work published on its merits, not 
by favour, not by scheming. So then, in 
spite of her wishes, you went ahead and did 
this? Are you going to force the girl to 
take a wedding present, that she doesn’t 
want?” 

“She is to have the present without know- 
ing it. She’ll never know that she owns 
Benson and Company until I die. It’s a 
secret between you and me, and my control 
of the business is also to be kept a secret. 
I’ve retained old Benson, the idiot, as 
the nominal head, at a salary that’ll sup- 
port him in luxury when he thought he was 


31 


on his way to the poor-house, though he 
ought to be kicked out of the tenth-story 
window for having accepted and boomed 
that ‘Workers’ book. However, I shall 
explain to him to-morrow or next day my 
views and plans on that subject, and there 
are, I see (here he consulted a paper before 
him), only two hundred and fifty-nine copies 
of the book bound on hand. There will be 
no more bound, and no more printed.” 

‘‘If I’m not mistaken, you’ll then be killing 
the goose that lays the one golden egg for 
your new business. I’ve known for some 
time that Benson and Company was totter- 
inp- and, big as the sales of this book are, 
that of course could not run the whole con- 
cern. But why you’ve decided not to 
keep on publishing it, and how can you get 
out of keeping the contract the house has 
with the author of the book, is more than 
I can see.” 

‘‘That,” returned Sam haughtily, ‘‘is be- 
cause you know nothing of the powers of a 
publishing house. I have seen the agree- 
ment with the Englishwoman. There is 
certainly nothing in it to force either the 
old house or its successors to continue to 
publish a book which is a menace to public 
morality, which that book is. A publisher 
can at any time refuse to push a book, re- 
fuse to print more copies of it, if he is 
so convinced, I hope.” 

Sam now glared defiantly at his friend. 
He kicked a hassock from under his feet 
and rose triumphant. 

‘‘ ‘A menace to public morality' did you 
say the book was?” asked Henderson from 
the midst of a coughing fit. 

‘‘I did!” roared Sam, standing and pound- 
ing the table with his pipe till the stem 
threatened to break. ‘‘It’s an immoral book, 
an indecent book, a book with socialistic 
tendencies — in short, a hell, of a book, and 
when you came in I was just beginning a 
letter to the author to tell her so, and to in- 
form her that no more copies were to be is- 
sued by my firm!” 

Here Henderson fairly doubled up with 
mirth. His face grew purple with laugh- 
ter. Finally he said brokenly — 

‘‘I hope you are not going to write those 
sentiments to the lady herself?” 

‘‘I certainly am, in as polite language as 
my conscience will permit. The letter will 
be posted this night before I go to bed, 
and to-morrow morning I shall call upon 
her at an hour I will name in th« let- 
ter.” 

Henderson went off again. ‘‘Tell me, Sam,” 
he said at length, with an air of great so- 
lemnity, ‘‘tell me now, as man to man, 
have you read the hook?* 

‘‘As man to man,” shouted Sam, ‘‘I tell 
you I have not read all the book. I 
wouldn’t soil my mind with such litera- 
ture!” 

‘‘Say, then, a quarter or an eighth of it?” 
pursued Henderson; but Sam’s only answer 
was an indistinct growl. 

‘‘I should think both your letter and your 
call would appeal to the lady’s sense of hu- 
mour!” mocked Henderson. 

‘‘Sense of humour!” sneered Sam. ‘‘She 
has none! Neither have you! But you 
can’t help it. Henderson, I don’t blame 
you ! People are sometimes born without 
it, having every other good gift and grace, 
and that’s the way with you. Actually you 
see humour, or think you do, in the so- 
called funny stories this woman has been 
writing in the ‘Arlington Magazine,’ while 


every one I have read has sickened me and 
given me the gripes. I tried to laugh at 
’em, but I couldn’t!” 

Henderson threatened to succumb to an- 
other coughing spell when suddenly he 
braced up and said — 

‘‘That reminds me. What are you going 
to do about retaining the present editor of 
the ‘Arlington,’ and what about Miss Far- 
rington’s serial and her stories that he 
must have on hand?” 

‘‘I’ve already had a talk with Jim Lloyd, 
and I’ve told him my plan is to make a 
serious, high-toned magazine out of the 
‘Arlington,’ instead of the cheap Sunday- 
newspaper comic-section affair that it has 
been lately. He bridled a bit, but he said 
very well, that he wanted to please me, 
and spoke of Miss Farrington’s other work 
as an example of high-class serious writ- 
ing, and he said he didn’t know what he 
could do about the serial he has which I 
told him I didn’t like. I told him I’d dis- 
cuss that with him later, for it’s my inten- 
tion to have a right-down heart-to-heart 
talk with both him and Benson as soon as 
I’ve seen the woman and made my ar- 
rangements with her. Lloyd will say noth- 
ing, you may be sure. He is as anxious as 
Benson to keep it from being known that 
the old firm is no more.” 

‘‘Was Margaret’s name mentioned by 
Lloyd?” asked Henderson. 

‘‘Well, he said he missed Miss Allison’s 
light stories, though he considered Miss 
Farrington’s quite as good, if not a bit 
superior, and then he informed me confi- 
dentially that he and Miss Allison had had 
a tiff ; that Miss Allison thought she could 
write the big things vhen she was only fit 
for the light trifles. You can just imagine 
that almost at that my valour got the bet- 
ter of my discretion. Almost I knocked 
him down on the spot, but I forbore for 
the time. It’s my Impression that Lloyd 
will get the sack — my very strong impres- 
sion!” 

Again Sam’s hair fluttered as though in'' 
emotion over the memory of the knock- 
down that was missed, and he puffed vig- 
orously at his pipe tn steady himself for 
further onslaught from Henderson. 

‘‘Sam,” said the latter seriously, ‘‘you’ve 
got the hardest case of love-blindness that 
I ever came across.” 

‘‘How so?” bridled Sam. 

‘‘Be honest and admit that all your feel- 
ing against the Englishwoman is because 
you regard her as a rival of Margaret!” 

‘‘I am honest, and therefore I won’t ad- 
mit any such thing!” answered the engi- 
neer doggedly. ‘‘At the same time I will 
say, also because I am honest, that Mar- 
garet has written some of the greatest 
short stories, one of the greatest plays, and 
two of the biggest books that have been 
done in modern times, and nobody will pub- 
lish them, while this woman writes trash 
and gets it printed!” 

He looked now the picture of injured, 
innocent, believing boyhood, the boy whom 
Margaret Allison, had she seen him at that 
instant, would have snatched in her arms 
with a longing to sing to him a lullaby 
and put him to sleep. It was just in this 
pose that Margaret often dreamed of him 
when he was down among his Peruvian 
mines, and from such dreams she would 
awake with a tearful smile and a longing 
to ‘‘mother” the man she loved. 


Henderson made the signs of war to show 
themselves anew, the boyish look to fade 
away. He brought back the determined 
man, the almost maddened lover. 

“You forget,” remarked he, “that very 
soon indeed this book of Miss Farring- 
ton’s will be seen on the stage as a play. 
It is announced to be put on shortly They 
say she dramatized it herself. You can’t 
kill her off by refusing to push her book.” 

Wait till I see her, wait till I see her' 
bhe can withdraw the play or I can buy 
the theatre. J shall give her the option 
of taking her book back and getting an- 
other publisher to issue it if she can, my 
firm relinquishing all rights of whatever 
nature, or I’ll retain the copyright and kill 
the book, and I’ll offer her a hundred thou- 
sand dollars to leave the country. That’s 
what she’s after— Money— and she can 
have it.” 

“A hundred thousand dollars to leave the 
country!” repeated Henderson. “Where 
shall you suggest her going?” 

“I don’t care a damn where she goes, so 
it s a long way off where she can’t worry 
the life out of Margaret.” 

“Is she worrying the life out of Margar- 
et?” asked Henderson. “Margaret doesn’t 
strike me as looking like pining away just 
now. She’s not that sort of woman, and 
she’s not vindictive either. You know how 
I feel about Margaret, Sam, as though she 
were a younger sister and you a brother. 
I love Margaret in just that way. I also 
believe with you that Margaret is the most 
wonderful writer of comedy and tragedy 
of the present decade. I don’t fail to ap- 
preciate Margaret, Sam!” 

“W’ell,” argued Sam, somewhat mollified, 
“don’t you see that if this Farrington wo- 
man was out of the way, there’d be more 
of a chance for Margaret? Now, with me 
the secret owner of a publishing house, and 
Frances Farrington disappeared, Margaret 
would be recognized for what she is worth.” 

“I doubt it, Sam, I tell you I doubt it! 
It’s impossible, absolutely impossible, mark 
my words!” 

“I’ll mark them all right, don’t you fear 
What! Going? Well, you can go, Hender- 
son, for somehow to-night you rile me and 
disturb my peace of mind, whereas I must 
compose it and get that letter off,” and 
with that he was left alone again, and he 
bepame inspired and dipped his pen into 
the ink quite calmly and wrote his letter. 

CHAPTER XII 
THE CHASE 

Miss Farrington sat in her window 
facing Washington Square, closely examin- 
ing the only letter she had received by the 
morning post. Her face was a study of 
perplexed study and bewildered amusement, 
as she peered at its headline, “Benson and 
Company, Publishers,” then re-read it down 
to the signature. And this was the letter : — 
“Madam, 

“I have the honour to inform you that I 
have personally taken over the business of 
Messrs. Benson and Company, and shall 
hereafter control the policy of the house, 
weeding out such publications as I think 
should not be issued by my firm, and add- 
ing to it such others as I shall deem wise 
and expedient. 

“After having given my most careful at- 
tention to your book, ‘The Workers,’ which 
was issued by Messrs. Benson and Com- 


pany, I have come to the decision that I 
cannot conscientiously push its circulation, 
and that no further editions of it can be 
printed by me. I consider your book a 
most dangerous one to be placed in the 
hands of our boys and girls who frequent 
the public libraries, nor do I think it one 
that should be seen on the parlour tables 
of our American homes. Without specify- 
ing particular pages, chapters or para- 
graphs, I will merely say that I find the 
book, as a whole, a menace to public moral- 
ity, a spreader of socialistic, if not anar- 
chistic, doctrines, and, if read widely, liable 
to shake the very foundations of our Amer- 
ican family life. I am quite aware that you 
may not understand this, for your view- 
point is English, while mine is thoroughly 
A.merican, but I simply state to you the 
situation as it appears to me. 

“However, it is not my intention that you 
shall be a financial loser. The copyright 
of your book will be turned over to you, 
and for whatever loss you feel you may sus- 
tain by my action I am prepared to reim- 
burse you, and, indeed, make the whole 
transaction a financial advantage to your- 
self. In order to discuss arrangements 
with you in an amicable and business-like 
manner, and to settle the matter at once, 
I shall do myself the honour of calling 
upon you to-morrow morning at eleven- 
thirty o’clock. 

“I beg to remain. Madam, 

“Yours very trul^, 

“Samuel Blackmore, 
“Publisher.” 

Having read the letter for the fourth time, 
Miss Farrington looked at the clock. It 
was just eleven. She peered out of the 
front window, went into the back room and 
looked out on to Mrs. Herbert’s bit of a 
garden, which in spring and summer she 
kept so carefully like a tiny English lawn, 
with the grass cut every fortnight, and 
with here and there, in a corner or along 
the border, some common but beloved va- 
riety of English hardy perennial, foliage 
and blossom reminding her of her home- 
land. Now the plants looked but dried 
and withered stalks ; snow covered their 
roots and kept them warm against the com- 
ing of springtime. Icicles hung from tne 
back fence-boards, and Harriet was re- 
moving wooden pegs from frozen towels 
and napery which fluttered heavily from 
the line. 

Somehow the scene from her back window 
made Miss Farrington shiver, though her 
rooms were bright and warm, and she 
walked away, again taking up her station 
at the front window. In the Square chil- 
dren were sliding along the ice, getting an 
occasional tumble of the sort which never 
discourages but emboldens them to re- 
newed effort to keep their feet. Men pass- 
ed along the pavement breathing frost, the 
breath of women froze in glistening crystals 
upon their veils, horses in the road planted 
their hoofs cautiously and firmly on the 
hardened earth as they drew carts and car- 
riages slowly along. There were times when 
the face of the watcher at the window light- 
ed with a smile, quickly followed by a 
dimness of sight, the dimness succeeded 
again by a set look of determination that 
seemed to bode little success to would-be 
interferers with her plans. 

A continuous pacing from window to 
window, from corner to corner, betrayed 


33 


that the woman was restless, and not quite 
pleased with such turns as affairs were 
taking. 

Finally in her bedroom she sat herself 
before her dressing-table, and began to re- 
arrange her hair, carefully noting that 
some wavelets were allowed to fall about 
her ears and forehead. She stood up and 
viewed her tall slim figure in the glass, 
seemed satisfied with it and the gown she 
wore. Then from her hanging closet she 
took a large hat and pinned it firmly in 
place ; she draped a chiffon mqltor-veil 
about it and allowed it to hang over her 
face, drew on her gloves and a striped 
jacket to match her dress, and going again 
over to one of her front windows, stood 
there holding the net curtains slightly 
apart, so that she could see up and down 
the street. By the clock it was just eleven 
twenty- five. 

Three minutes went by, then four. “A 
high hat, in tribute to my nationality!” 
she exclaimed suddenly. “A ‘topper’ ! See, 
he is looking at the numbers, oh so care- 
fully — surely it is the gentleman himself.” 
And she fiew from the window, out of her 
door, and down the stairs. 

At each side of the wide front door there 
was a small perpendicular pane of glass, 
very narrow, but unstained and uncurtain- 
ed. From one of these Miss Farrington 
saw a tall, handsome, smooth-faced man 
approaching. He had a determined-looking 
mouth, he wore a fur-lined coat unfastened 
and partly thrown back from his chest, a 
high hat, tilted back slightly, from under 
the rim of which strayed a tiny lock of 
wavy blond hair. He stopped before the 
steps, consulted his watch, and placed his 
right foot on the bottom step. Certainly 
this was the gentleman for whom Miss Far- 
rington waited. She could not doubt it. 
He was now at the top of the steps, about 
to ring the bell, when she swiftly, quietly, 
turned the knob from” the inside, and made 
a dash to brush past him. He saw the door 
open as though by magic, heard the rustle 
of skirts go by him, and was confronted 
by an uncompromising back clothed in a 
striped jacket. 

“Madam!” he stammered. “I have come 
to see Miss Farrington on important busi- 
ness. . . . Are you not . . . surely 
you must be . . .” 

The lady had now got dowm the steps, and 
she did not turn her face to him as she 
interrupted him in a clear bell-like voice, 
decidedly English in its intonation — 

“I fancy you will find her out!” 

Mr. Samuel Blackmore, Publisher, almost 
jumped out of his “topper” as he made a 
sudden rush from ^the door and down the 
steps. The lady was now' on the pavement 
and the gentleman was within three yards 
of her. Along she sped, gathering up her 
striped skirts that they might not impede 
her progress, and after her strode Black- 
more. Now she fairly fiew along, a.nd, bet- 
ter to see her why, she pushed uo the 
heavy veil from her burning face. Not once 
did she look back, but she heard her pur- 
suer gaining upon her. Now she length- 
ened her steps till she cut a most ungrace- 
ful figure as she hurried along. She be- 
gan to realize that the man was much 
taller than she and that his strides were 
those of a giant. Her breath came in 
little gasps, she held her sides as on she 
flew. Her foot caught in the silk ruf- 


fle of her underskirt, and almost tripped 
her. She grabbed it up, tore the tattered 
piece off, and darted suddenly across the 
road, giving her pursuer Just enough of a 
surprise to delay him slightly. Coming out 
as she now did into Broadway she was 
confronted by the side door of an office 
building which she knew had another exit 
into Astor Place. She threw her whole 
weight against the door, w^ch opened in- 
ward, on to some stairs. Again Blackmore 
was taken by surprise, but he saw the 
dash, and as he plunged in, the panting 
woman had reached the top of the first 
flight of stairs. Two steps at a time mount- 
ed Blackmore, but a turn in the hall-way 
confused him, while just a few yards off, 
descending the stairs that led ito Astor 
Place, the woman, breathless, almost faint- 
ing, leaned against the balustrade. All her 
English dignity seemed to have left her. 
One foot protruded from among ragged 
skirt ruffles. Her hair, so carefully and 
wonderfully dressed but a half-hour before, 
had now become straggled and tossed about 
by the wind, and her back-comb and tor- 
toise-shell hairpins were tumbling from 
her head. Her smart large hat with its 
ostrich plumes was tilted to one side, giv- 
ing her a peculiarly rakish look, and the 
hand by which she tried to steady the hat 
trembled violently. Her attitude was one 
of half-humbled pride, yet half-despairing 
defiance; the picture she made was both 
comic and pathetic, and If now the chase 
had ended, she must have excited even in 
the heart of Samuel Blackmore, Publisher, 
a feeling of pity, if of nothing else. 

Her respite was but for a moment, for 
there came again the sound of advancing, 
mighty footsteps. She looked back once, 
then plunged almost headlong down the 
steps and out of the door and into Astor 
Place. 

CHAPTER Xin 

THE DISAPPEARANCE OF FRANCES 
FARRINGTON 

Love is a beautifler, a rejuvenator. It 
transfigures the plainest features, brings a 
gleam into hitherto unlightened aind, per- 
chance, dull eyes, and casts a wondrous 
something over the countenance of the 
ugliest woman. It smoothes away crow’s- 
feet, it makes the step sprightly, it adds 
grace and comeliness to the figure. 

All this, and more, for the ugly woman 
it will do, and the beautiful woman it 
glorifies and makes of her a very goddess. 

Thus Love was treating Margaret Alli- 
son. Finding her a woman of beauty and 
fascination, it multiplied each grace and 
charm a thousandfold. Had she been a 
w'oman of many intimate friends, they I 
would all have noted the glorifying pro- 
cess that was going on within her, bursting ^ 
forth outwardly in her eyes, her lips, the i 
poise of her head, the growing fullness nf 
her voice. John Henderson had seen it I 
during his visit to New' York, Carolyn 
Blaine noted it daily, and Captain Jinks ' 
^It it, albeit, possibly, unconsciously. 
0th6rs, whoso lintorost in hor was loss 
keen, were less observant, and perhaps 
more stupid as well. They did not know 
of her engagement. They considered her 
a handsome woman, a delightful, kindly 
woman, full of sympathy, often misplaced 
and a woman of boundless ambition. They 

34 


fancied she must have -had a love affair 
at some time — for was she not thirty years 
'Old, and the type of woman admired of 
men? — and for some reason had remained 
unmarried, probably because she cared 
more for a “career” than she could care 
for any one man. 

To the trinity who noted her growing 
beauty might be added a fourth, whose 
comprehension of the miracle was some- 
thing like unto that of Captain Jinks, a 
matter of feeling without understanding. 
This was little Annette, the chambermaid 
on Margaret’s flo'or at the “Illington,” she 
whom Margaret had met when she left 
prison, where she had been sent for steal- 
ing her mistress’s ring. Annette was half 
French, half Italian, and born in the land 
of the Little Corporal, Corsica. To An- 
nette, Miss Allison was always the “bonne 
Signorina,” as she quaintly put it, for she 
incessantly mixed up the language of her 
fatherland with that of her motherland 
and a sprinkling of English, to Margaret's 
great amusement. She spoke fairly good 
English when she chose to do so, but gen- 
erally she did not choose, but she had not 
yet learned to read English. In talking 
with Margaret she spoke English because 
Margaret had asked her to do it. Annette 
complied with the request just as she would 
have jumped out of the window had her 
benefactress so commanded her. It was 
Annette’s delight to enlarge Captain Jinks’ 
vocabulary in the matter of counting, and 
while doing this by means of some easy 
language books from the book-case, she 
had herself imbibed a bit of Spanish and 
German, of which she sometimes made 
use when in need of expletives. 

The little maid sat now upon the floor of 
Margaret’s study with Captain Jinks, brush - 
ing out the kinks from his long black hair. 
A half-hour ago Captain Jinks had emerged 
from his Saturday afternoon bath which 
Annette always gave him. It was her own 
half-day off duty, and she loved to spend it 
with her “bonne Signorina.” For a while, 
after his tub. Captain Jinks had sat soli- 
tary upon the Persian prayer rug, reflect- 
ively studying the quaintly formed vari- 
coloured little animals all about him. He 
shook himself and sprinkled a right-angled 
triangle of brilliant hue, and possibly won- 
dered if it could have been meant for a 
chicken. He glared at it in all its damp- 
ness, sniffed contemptuously, and concen- 
trated his attention upon the next figure. 
He hoped he knew a cow! Should It not, 
by rights, be of brown anJ white variegated^ 
calico hue, with hard, curved herns, meant 
to impanel foolish dogs, a.ad .just to miss 
bringing destruction upon the wise ones who 
jumped quickly away after snapping at its 
heels? Should it not have a hard, long 
tail, that sometimes snapped you ferocious- 
ly on your muzzle, when you had supposed 
it was merely a stationary member, hang- 
ing fixedly down between the cow’s hind 
legs? Was this pointed pink animal, of 
antique weave, fastened on four green poles, 
a cow? 

Thus meditating, suspiciously, scornfully. 
Captain Jinks had grown drowsy after the 
exertions of his bath, and now he slept, 
stretched full length upon the rug, occa- 
sionally turning over most accommodating- 
ly between snores, in order that Annette 
might attach another tangled frill about 
bis paws, or a certain rosette upon 
haunches. The sun and the brush together 


rapidly dried him ; his coat became sleek 
and shiny, and soft to the touch as the finest 
silk, and while yet he slept and snored, his 
orange ribbon bow was tied upon his top- 
knot. 

What ivonder Captain Jinks slept now in 
the bright afternoon. Not until long after 
midnight had he gone to bed in his own 
green cosy-corner the night before. He had 
performed on the stage at an entertainment 
given for the joint benefit of the Home for 
Crippled Children and the Home for Lost 
Dogs, and besides doing his “turn,” he had 
sold programmes, trotting up and down the 
aisles with a basket in his mouth, and a pla- 
card fastened to the bow of his topknot an- 
nouncing “No Change!” so that numbers 
of the programmes had sold for as much as 
a dollar apiece, while three particular ad- 
mirers, of Margaret Allison had recklessly 
expended ten-dollar bills. 

Then, too, he had enjoyed no nap on the 
previous afternoon, what with rehearsing 
the performance he was to give in the eve- 
ning. The rehearsal he had done at the 
Tombs, when he had accompanied his lady 
there on her rounds. He had a most partic- 
ular friend and admirer at the Tombs, Jim 
Riley, one of the keepers, who, strong of 
muscle, wide of girth, and kind of heart, 
welcomed the clever little actor, not only 
on his own account, but for the sake of 
some of the weary ones who waited for 
their own “turns” in the court-room. Stur- 
dy Jim had charge of a number of such 
prisoners, and he always tried to give his 
favourites among them a glimpse of Cap- 
tain Jinks, who would be left in his care 
while Margaret went her rounds, which, as 
she laughingly reported, always resulted to 
her in “blessings and copy.” 

So the yesterday had been a strenuous 
day, and now Captain Jinks, having been 
refreshed, rested from his labours. 

His lady sat in her carved rocking-chair 
before a window, a picture of beauty and 
contentment. She was doing some dainty 
embroidery work, as became a woman who 
was to be married within a few weeks, 
though she worked not upon a trousseau nor 
indeed upon any garment for herself. The 
fact was that she was embroidering various 
patterns of meerschaum pipes on a blue 
silk quilted smoking-jacket which she in- 
tended as a wedding gift for Sam when he 
should return from Peru, the return day 
having also been planned to be their mar- 
riage day. 

For herself, Margaret was not preparing 
a trousseau, nor could she understand why 
prospective brides should tire themselves 
out and make themselves dull-eyed and spir- 
itless with ceaseless shopping and hours 
standing at the dressmakers’, nor why they 
should blunt their finger-ends in the prepa- 
ration of linen, and bankrupt their friends 
with present-giving. Margaret would have 
told her acquaintances, had they been aware 
of her approaching marriage and inquired 
about her trousseau, that she was a pros- 
perous professional woman, and was able 
always to wear proper gowns, hats, gloves, 
boots, and that she kept herself always 
supplied with whatever various social oc- 
casions demanded; that her lingerie, her 
toilet silver, her little knick-knacks, were 
all that the daintiest of women could de- 
sire. Furthermore, she could see no impro- 
priety, but only a delight, in having her 
husband buy for her any articles of wearing 
apparel that she should happen to find she 


needed, even if it should be on the day fol- 
lowing her marriage. She had no notion of 
compliance to foolish customs or absurd 
conventionalities, and as Carolyn laughingly 
told her, she would be quite likely to break 
every solitary rule in the matter of getting 
married that society laid down. At present, 
though her lover had given her various and 
costly presents of chains, brooches, rings, 
she had nothing which could be called an 
“engagement ring,’’ though often she wore 
one or another of his rings on such finger 
as it happened to fit, and with such manner 
of dressing as seemed to demand it. 

As for the ceremony itself, she expected 
that as soon as Sam arrived from Peru they 
would drive directly from the steamer, 
where she and Captain Jinks would meet 
him, to a little house on the east side and 
astonish the Little Dominie with a request 
to be married in the “front room,” with his 
wife and his niece for witnesses, astonishing 
him still further by such a big fee as only 
the mind of her generous bridegroom could 
originate. She did not wish even such dear 
friends of her own and Sam’s as John Hen- 
derson and Carolyn Blaine to be present. 
Getting married was her own and Sam’s 
affair. 

If trousseau and preparations for the 
ceremony, a choosing of bridesmaids, a 
planning of wedding tour, took up no part of 
her thoughts, still they dwelt, and now, al- 
most constantly, upon her lover’s return and 
her future life with him. There had been 
a time when she counted the months, now 
she numbered the weeks, and joyed to find 
that she needed not all the fingers of her 
two hands for the counting. Several times 
she had enumerated the days, and twice she 
had awakened at night from dreams of him 
and set herself to enumerating the hours 
that separated them, and because they were 
so many she cried out in rebellion, and had 
spent the rest of the night in writing to 
him, that the burdensome hours might pass 
more swiftly. 

Over the smoking-jacket she sat now 
and dreamed, not of worldly success, not of 
the fulfilment of her literary ambition, but 
of Love’s bright future. She saw Annette 
sitting with Captain Jinks upon the rug, 
and her heart’s desire added thereto a 
third figure. She could see a child fondling 
Captain Jinks, a child with blue eyes and 
blonde hair, a child made in her loved 
one’s image, his son, and already she loved 
this child who should be begotten of their 
love. She stretched out her hand to caress 
him as though he were there in the liv- 
ing present, and then she smiled at her 
beautiful fancy. She was a woman of 
imagination, and she joyed and suffered as 
only the imaginative can. On the wings 
of her imagination she ascended oftentimes 
into heaven. On those same wings she 
descended into hell, and when in hell even 
she could lift up her voice and praise her 
God, for up out of hell she knew she could 
come to do the work for which those 
depths had prepared her. ,lust as keenly 
as she could suffer, just that greatly could 
she enjoy. 

Being imaginative, she was also pro- 
foundly religious, as all imaginative na- 
tures are. No sect hemmed her in, no 
creed bound her, no attempts at consis- 
tency, which Emerson has so rightly named 
“the hobgoblin of little minds,” closed up 
the springs of her sympathy and under- 


standing. She never talked of her relig- 
ion. That and her love were sacred to her. 
Once, at a social gathering, she had, in 
conversation, used the expression “Sin, the 
Redeemer,” and had noted the shocked look 
that came over the faces of Mrs. Gregory- 
Mills and her ilk. Laughingly she after- 
wards spoke of the incident to the Little 
Dominie as they were ascending the rick- 
etty tenement stairs to carry thanksgiving 
cheer to the home of a little newsboy 
friend. 

“Why cast the pearls of your thought 
before swine?” was all he answered. 

Ah, the Little Dominie! What a fee 
would Sam give him! Margaret was startled 
from her reverie by the voice of Annette. 

“You do grow so preety every day, Mees 
Allison! I watch your face long time now, 
while Captain Jeenks been asleep, and I 
think it be more beautiful than all the 
saints!” 

“Oh, Annette!” and Margaret laughed 
heartily. “You see, Annette, I am very 
happy these days. I have a beautiful secret 
which I will tell you, because you are my 
very dear friend, if you -will promise to 
keep it a secret also, for I don’t want any- 
body else to know it.” 

Solemnly Annette crossed herself. “I will 
nevaire tell!” she said. 

“I am going to be married, Annette, oh, 
quite soon, now, only a few weeks, and you 
are going to live with me as my own maid 
and to take care of Captain Jinks.” 

Annette’s little teeth gleamed between her 1 
ruddy lips. “You will marry to a good, I 
handsome gentleman, and I shall dress C 
you all preety, and make your hair all so j| 
fine and crinkly?” she asked, clapping her j 
hands. “And Captain Jeenks always be for ^ .1 
me to wash and comb! I tie his ribbons 3 
so!” and deftly she untied and retied the. jH 
orange bow. 

“Certainly to a good and handsome gen-^TS 
tleman!” laughed Margaret, “and you’ll 
travel all about with us wherever we go,i('3 
and 1 shall teach you to read -English, and‘^ 
sometime I think I shall marry you off to ■ 
a good man, but not for many years, for 
you are so young, Annette, and you must ? 
grow up and learn many things.” . F' 

Annette shook her head sadly. “No,” she 
said. “Always when you love a man, he 
make you do the wrong things! Once I 
love a man. He tell me steal a ring, and 
I do, and then I go prison, and everybody 
call me wicked, except you. I have no 
place to go, only with you when you come 
to the prison to take me away. Mees Alli- 
son, you sure the gentleman which you 
marry is very good?” Annette looked wist- 
fully into Margaret’s face. 

“Yes, dear,” she said; “but I want to tell 
you something you perhaps have never 
thought of before. It is better that every ^ 
woman should love some man, even if he is 
a bad man. Love is good for a woman.” 

“No, no, Mees Allison!” exclaimed An- , 

nette. “Not a bad man! Not if it make ] 

her go to prison like me!” The girl’s eyes ,■ 
grew wide and more wistful, showing a 
soul struggling amid growing pains, but 
Margaret understood that the time was not 
yet for the lesson she would teach. 

“Sometime I will explain to you more 
about it,” she said, “but now you must not 
worry about the stolen ring or anything, 
but just remember what good friends you 


and I are, and what gay times we shall 
have after a while.” 

“Verry well, all right, Mees Allison. I 
will think about how I shall make your 
clothes all by myself with the fluting-iron 
better than the washerwoman, and the lace 
on the white bodice down the front, and I 
make the wonderful darning I learn in the 
convent.” 

Margaret nodded smilingly. She was 
growing to love Annette, so that it would 
have been a cross to part with her. Sam 
had acquiesced instantly to the plan of 
having her as Margaret’s maid. He had 
never seen her, but he knew her history. 
As for Annette, she had no notion of who 
was the “good and handsome gentleman” 
Miss Allison was to marry. Miss Allison 
had not volunteered to give further infor- 
mation, and the girl had a certain native 
delicacy about her that kept her in the 
place she knew was hers. 

Five minutes passed in silence, Avhen An- 
nette broke it. 

“Mees Morton, she live in this hotel!” 
she remarked. 

“Oh, no, Annette,” said Margaret, who 
took the remark as an inquiry. “Miss Mor- 
ton lives away up town.” 

“No, she live here. She move here to- 
day. She have rooms on floor above this, 
and I take care her room. She try give me 
one dollar right away and smile, but I take 
no teeps from her!” 

Annette spoke very decidedly, almost 
maliciously, and when she uttered the pro- 
noun there could be no doubt of the feeling 
she entertained for “her” if one might 
judge by the emphasis. 

Margaret appeared not to notice what 
Annette was saying. Instead, she was lis- 
tening attentively to a commotion in the 
street and the excited cries of the news- 
boys that came up to her window from 
the pavement below. They were screaming 
out something concerning the “yuxtras” 
which they flourished in the faces of pass- 
ers-by. The noise awoke Captain Jinks, 
who sprang to his favourite seat in the bow 
window, whence he could look down on the 
busy street below. 

“It is time for you to go on duty again, 
Annette,” Margaret said, “and suppose you 
take Captain Jinks downstairs and send 
him back to me with the latest paper they 
are calling in the street.” 

Annette and Captain Jinks left the 
apartment. In the hall they passed Miss 
Helen Morton, but Annette pretended not 
to see her. 

“Diable!” hissed the little Corsican be- 
tween her teeth as she^passed the actress. 

A minute later Margaret heard Captain 
Jinks’ quick little patter-patter outside, 
and she opened the door to him. He car- 
ried an evening paper in his mouth, and 
he rose on hind legs to offer it to her as 
she stood. He happened to hold it in such 
a way that the foremost headline could be 
read as he barked for her to take it. Huge 
black letters stretched across the page. 
She had read them before she took the 
paper from the dog’s mouth: — 

STRANGE DISAPPEARANCE! 

SUPPOSED MURDER OF THE NOTED 
ENGLISH AUTHORESS. 
FRANCES FENNIMORE FARRINGTOxN » 


CHAPTER XIV 

THE UNCLAIMED TRUNKS AT THE 
DOCK 

The story which Margaret read in the 
evening paper of the disappearance of 
Frances Fennimore Farrington was re- 
peated with additional details the next day 
in the morning papers of New York and 
the larger cities of the whole country. 

The fact of the Englishwoman’s disap- 
pearance was, it seemed, first made known 
by the discovery of two unclaimed trunks 
at the dock of the White Star Line, Pier 
Number 48. 

These trunks had been delivered at the 
dock on a certain Tuesday morning, Feb- 
ruary 14th, by a responsible Transfer Com- 
pany’s waggon, the man who brought them 
saying that the lady to whom they belonged 
would claim them that night, as she was 
sailing on the Wednesday’s ship for Liver- 
pool, and they were put among the luggage 
belonging to the first cabin passengers for 
the next day’s ship. They were, however, 
never claimed, and the ship sailed without 
them. 

On a label attached to each trunk was 
plainly written in printed letters “Frances 
Fennimore Farrington, Steamship ‘Majes- 
tic,’ White Star Line,” and on the large 
trunk was the placard supplied by the 
steamship company “Not Wanted,” while 
on the small flat box was the sign 
“Wanted.” 

One of the dock employes began making 
inquiries about the unclaimed trunks, and 
the expressman who had brought them gave 
the number in Washington Square from 
which he had carried them. Inquiry at 
this address brought the information that 
the lady to whom the trunks belonged had 
certainly left the house with the intention 
of sailing on the “Majestic,” and it de- 
veloped that a first-class ticket had been 
purchased by her, though not in person. 
At the White Star office in Broadway a let- 
ter had been received from a Miss F. Far- 
rington, describing the state-room re- 
quired, one of the most expensive in the 
first cabin. The letter had been registered 
and the price of the state-room was en- 
closed, and the lady’s name had been 
printed upon the outgoing passenger list, 
as was shown at the office. 

To ascertain whether or not the lady had 
sailed, leaving her luggage behind her in 
the rush of catching the ship in the early 
morning, a cablegram was sent to Liver- 
pool, when it was found that nobody had 
occupied the room for which a ticket had 
been sold to Miss Farrington, that no ap- 
plication for an exchange had been made, 
and that nothing further had ever been 
heard from the purchaser of the ticket. 

A full description of the personal ap- 
pearance of her late lodger had been given 
by a Mrs. Herbert, of Washington Square, 
which description was made known through 
the Press, but no person seemed to have 
seen her since the day when she was sup- 
posed to have sailed for Liverpool. She 
had not been seen on the ship. She had 
never landed in Liverpool. She had never 
reappeared in New York. The time of the 
ship’s sailing being very much out of sea- 
son for travel abroad, only a comparatively 
small number of passengers had been taken 


37 


over, and every one on the list was traced 
and accounted for with the exception of 
the noted writer, Frances Fennimore Far- 
rington. 

Finally the two trunks were turned over 
to the authorities and opened, in the hope 
of obtaining clues concerning the missing 
woman’s relatives, since Mrs. Herbert, of 
Washington Square, had deposed to know- 
ing nothing whatever about them, and ad- 
vertisements in English newspapers were 
without result. 

Inside the trunks there was not found so 
much as a scrap of paper with writing on 
it. There were no letters, no cards, no 
manuscripts. The trunks were loosely 
packed, and could have held twice as much 
wearing apparel as was in them. The 
clothing they did contain was of very fine 
quality; the underwear was of the French 
hand-made variety, but was in no way 
marked with ink or embroidered mono- 
gram. This latter discovery was consid- 
ered somewhat extraordinary, for the 
owner of such expensive clothing would 
naturally, it seemed, have had it marked 
in some way. Not even the handkerchiefs, 
of the finest linen, had so much as an 
initial on them. 

Though fine in quality, the sets of under- 
wear, the stockings, and other accessories 
of a woman’s toilet were few in quantity. 
There was one tailor-made gown of fine 
striped material, and of the best cut and 
make. The waist-band of the bodice, which 
should have had the maker’s name and 
address gilded on it, was of plain black 
belt-silk. There was one low-cut evening 
gown, of blue silk and chiffon and trimmed 
with costly lace; one thin summer silk 
kimono; a heavy quilted winter wrapper 
of embroidered Japanese silk; a half-dozen 
shirtwaists of severe but stylish cut; a 
dozen collars and pairs of cuffs, and a lit- 
tle box of toi'et odds and ends, such as 
hair-pins, safety-pins, orange-wood mani- 
cure sticks, and thread and needles. 

The smaller trunk held a small steam- 
er dress, a golf-cape, a steamer rug and 
a pair of goloshes, two changes of under- 
wear, a bath-robe, and a pair of slippers, 
also three flannel shirt-waists. In the 
goloshes and the slippers there was evi- 
dence that the name of the maker had 
been removed. There were a few pads of 
writing paper, some unsharpened pencils, 
a small Russian leather portfolio, evident- 
ly intended to be used on shipboard as a 
lap writing-desk. This contained ink, pens, 
sealing-wax, English and American postage 
stamps, and other stationery requisites. 
There was not on a single article in 
either of the trunks any name or trade- 
mark by which the seller or maker could 
be traced. 

The absence of tooth-brush, hair-brush, 
comb, and toilet requisites was accounted 
for by the probability that the lady had 
retained, quite naturally, things of this 
sort, in order to take them herself in a 
bag or suit-case to the ship at the time 
of sailing. 

After due investigation and considera- 
tion, it became evident to the New York 
authorities that the owner of the trunks 
had not gone to the dock, though her 
landlady insisted that she had certainly 
started for it, taking a small brown bag 
with her, which, from the description given 


of It, appeared to have been of alligator 
skin. She had left the house in a cab. 

’The newspapers hinted that Mrs. Her- 
bert had, besides this, given out some 
valuable and mysterious information at 
the office of the District Attorney, upon 
which she had been cautioned not to talk 
to reporters. One thing only became known 
as certain, that the police department had 
started a search for the dead -body of 
Frances Fennimore Farrington, and for 
the person or persons responsible for her 
disappearance and murder. For, that she 
had been murdered, so it was stated in 
the papers, there could be no doubt, and 
the District Attorney was merely quoted 
as saying that he had suddenly become 
possessed of a most valuable “clue.” 

Within three days after the first mention 
of this story in print, the disappearance 
of the Englishwoman had become the 
leading subject of discussion in the papers, 
in certain society circles, and among 
members of literary clubs. The sensa- 
tional papers, first to publish the news, 
were joined by the more conservative 
press, which daily devoted several first- 
page columns to the mystery. 

And in all New York there was no more 
interested reader of these articles than 
Margaret Allison. On the night that the 
first news was printed Captain Jinks spent 
the night at Carolyn Blaine’s fiat, where 
he was a welcome visitor, his mistress tell- 
ing Carolyn that she had a sudden call 
to go to Boston. The next afternoon she 
was back again at her New York hotel, 
and found Carolyn and Captain Jinks wait- 
ing for her outside the door. During the 
evening the two friends looked over the 
papers together. 

“It’s a queer case!” commented Carolyn 
briefly, pointing to a prominent head- 
line. 

“A very remarkable one, I should say,” 
replied Margaret. 

“What is your opinion of it?” asked 
Carolyn. 

“My opinion is that the District At- 
torney’s office certainly must clear up the 
mystery in a very few days. It is true 
they have not an over-supply of brains in 
that office, but what they have should be 
equal to this. It cannot be possible that 
a case which looks so very simple can 
baffle even their feather-weight brains for 
long. Here it is more than two weeks 
since the woman disappeared, for you see 
the newspapers did not know anything of 
it till long after the ‘Majestic’ arrived in 
Liverpool and some time was spent cabling 
back and forth. They talk of her having 
been murdered, yet no body is found that |j 
answers to her description. Where is .. 
the cab-man who drove the woman to the ^ 
docks? I am absolutely convinced that 
she could never have been murdered, 
whatever else may have become of her.” 

The fire was burning, in the luxurious 
fire-place, and Margaret began walking to 
and fro with papers from her desk. Let- 
ter after letter became fuel, and bits of 
manuscripts added to the brightness of the 
flame. “I must dispose of my rubbish!” 
she remarked. 

“Before you get married?” asked Caro- 
lyn. Then she added, “When do you ex- 
pect Mr. Blackmore?” 

“Let me see,” said Margaret thought- 
fully, as though the number of hours now 

38 


until his expected return were not a mat- 
ter of exact knowledge to her. “He said 
he could not be away longer than ten 
weeks, and we are to married within an 
hour after his return. He left on Feb- 
ruary 15th ” 

“You say he left New York on the fif- 
teenth?” interrupted Carolyn. She glanced 
up with a bewildered air from the paper, 
In the midst of reading the sentence, “Miss 
Farrington was last seen alive, so far as 
is known, in the early morning of Febru- 
ary 15th.” 

“Why yes, dear,” replied Margaret, turn- 
ing and looking full at Carolyn. “He took 
the ‘Orinoco,’ of the Royal Mail Steam 
Packet Company, for Colon, which sailed 
very early on the fifteenth — Wednesday, you 
may remember it was.” 

“You saw him off, didn’t you, Margaret?” 
asked Carolyn again. 

“I didn’t go on the ship with him. It 
was such an ungodly hour for sailing, and 
he had some of his directors with him, but 
naturally I bade him good-bye!” and Mar- 
garet smiled. 

Carolyn placed her hand to her head in 
a dazed sort of way. 

“Did Mr. Blackmore know Miss Farring- 
ton?” she asked suddenly. 

“Why, my dear, I never asked Sam if he 
knew her!” exclaimed Margaret, lifting her 
eyes in apparent astonishment. “Why 
should you think he knew her?” 

“I don’t think. I only wondered,” an- 
swered Carolyn in a low voice. On her 
way home that night her mind was in a 
turmoil of bewilderment and a sort of un- 
defined terror. She remembered very clear- 
ly now two or three incidents that troubled 
her. She had not said to Margaret “Did 
you know Miss Farrington?”; yet here in 
the papers was the number of Miss Far- 
rington’s boarding place, and it was cer- 
tainly a number that would be very close 
to the house from which she had one day 
seen Margaret walk away. She had not not- 
ed the number that day, but she remember- 
ed well the appearance of the house, and 
she would know it again. 

The next morning in going to her school 
she took a round-about walk through Wash- 
ington Square and passed by the house she 
remembered so well. The number was that 
which the papers gave as the address of the 
Mrs. Herbert with whom Miss Farrington 
had boarded. All that day at school there 
kept running through her mind, “And Sam 
Blackmore sailed on the fifteenth very early 
in the morning!” She wondered if he had 
known the missing woman, and if Margaret 
had known he knew her. Suddenly she re- 
membered Margaret’s trip to Boston on 
the evening when it had become public 
that Frances Farrington had disappeared. 
She stopped short in the midst of a ques- 
tion she was asked a member of her class 
in Latin. 

Margaret had made no explanation of the 
reason of her trip, and she knew that Mar- 
garet could not have spent more than an 
hour in the city. Might she not have sent 
a cablegram from Boston, a cablegram of 
warning to someone, which she was afraid 
would be intercepted if sent from New 
York? 

Then Carolyn Blaine, loyal friend of Mar- 
garet Allison, hated herself for an instant, 
remembering that in Boston as well as in 


many other cities Margaret probably had 
protdges whom she was helping with money 
and advice, unfortunates concerning whom 
she never spoke to anyone, and in re- 
turning faith and cheer she assured herself 
that Margaret had gone to Boston on an 
errand of mercy. 

CHAPTER XV 

MRS. HERBERT’S STATEMENT 
CONCERNING HER LATE LODGER 

Leaving out dropped and misplaced 
aitches, tears, wringing of hands, lamenta- 
tions, and appeals to God for confirmation 
of her declarations, the sworn statement 
which Mrs. Herbert, lodging-house keeper, 
of Washington Square, made privately to 
the District Attorney, and which was taken 
down by his stenographer, was as fol- 
lows: — 

On a certain date, nearly two years ago, 
Miss Frances Fennimore Farrington, or a 
lady who gave her a card bearing that 
name, had come to her in search of lodg- 
ings, and Mrs. Herbert had recognized her 
as an Englishwoman by her looks, her 
manner, and her mode of speech. The lady 
said she desired to live as was customary 
in lodgings, having two rooms, one as 
bedroom, one as dining-room, her meals 
to be served to her privately whenever 
she should order them. 

She had seemed to Mrs. Herbert so very 
like the titled ladies Mrs. Herbert had 
been accustomed to serve when she lived 
in England that she had involuntarily ad- 
dressed her as “Your Ladyship,” at which 
the lady appeared to be both startled and 
annoyed, informing Mrs. Herbert that 
she was to be called by the name on the 
card. Several times afterwards the lady 
had also expressed annoyance when Mrs. 
Herbert had unconsciously addressed her as 
“My Lady,” until Mrs. Herbert, fearing that 
she might lose a very delightful and 
promptly paying lodger, had taxed harself 
to become more careful, and though she had 
thereafter always addressed her lodger as 
“Miss,” she had remained of the- opinion 
that she was a “ladyship,” from which po- 
sition she had even now no intention of 
budging. 

The lady had told Mrs. Herbert’s daugh- 
ter that she was engaged in literary work, 
and that therefore she must never be dis- 
turbed under any circumstances, and she 
made it so plain that she did not desire 
to have so much as her bed made or her 
fioor swept unless she rang for such at- 
tendance, that Mrs. Herbert and her 
daughter had respected her wishes and had 
never gone to her rooms, except to carry 
mail, unless they were asked to do so. 
Sometimes the lady would go out for the 
greater part of the day, and there were 
occasions when she spent the night away, 
using always the latchkey for entering the 
front door. Asked if she knew where the 
lady had gone to spend the night on such 
occasions, Mrs. Herbert declared that she 
did not know, and that she hoped she knew 
her place well enough not to make imper- 
tinent inquiries. 

Miss Farrington had, on the day of her 
arrival, given explicit instructions that if 
anybody should call and inquire for her 
she was always “out,” whether or not she 
happened to be in her rooms, unless she 

39 


had previously given warning that she ex- 
pected someone to call. 

After she had resided with Mrs. Herbert 
for some months there began to be many 
inquiries at the door for Miss Farrington, 
but nobody was ever permitted to see her, 
except two callers, one a gentleman, one a 
lady. As it here came out that these two 
visitors had only called just before Miss 
Farrington had left Mrs. Herbert’s, she 
was told to bring in her description at 
the end of her statement, so she returned 
to the earlier days of her English lodger. 

The ilady had appeared to be alw^ays very 
busy, and sometimes Mrs. Herbert had no- 
ticed a light through the crack of her door 
if she passed it late in the evening, and she 
could at such times hear the scratching of 
a pen. On several such occasions she felt 
sure she had heard the sound of weeping in 
her lodger’s room, while at other times it 
had seemed to her that she heard hysterical 
peals of laughter — very quiet, genteel peals, 
of course they were, so Mrs. Herbert ex- 
plained. 

There was something noticeably sad 
about the lady’s eyes, and it was Mrs. Her- 
bert’s opinion that some great personal or 
family sorrow had sent her away from Eng- 
land to find a home -in a new country. Mrs. 
Herbert spoke of the lady as being “very 
handsome, very tail, very stately, though 
very swaet.’’ She had hazel-like eyes, brown 
hair, a fair-sized mouth, a straight nose 
and forehead of medium height. 

A large number of letters had been re- 
ceived almost daily for Miss Farrington, 
and they had always been taken from the 
letter-box by Mrs. Herbert herself, in so 
far as she knew, although, of course. Miss 
Farrington, in going in or out of the door, 
might have found mail for herself and 
taken it upstairs, for sometimes Harriet 
was careless and forgot to lock the box. 
Nearly all of the tetters had the names 
of magazines printed on the corners of the 
envelopes, and in so far as Mrs. Herbert 
could remember, there had been no en- 
velopes bearing English postmarks. As for 
the letters which the lady herself wrote, 
she had always posted them herself. 

The Englishwoman had not appeared to 
be pressed for money. She had paid a good 
price for the rooms, always by the month 
in advance, and upon taking them had said 
that whenever she decided to leave she 
would give either one month’s notice or one 
month’s rental, as was customary among 
what Mrs. Herbert called “proper people’’ 
in England. The lady lived in every way 
after the fashion of English people, hav- 
ing breakfast of bacon and toast and tea, 
or an egg instead of bacon, and she was 
pleased that Mrs. Herbert served her toast 
in a silver toast-rack. When she was at 
home in the afternoon she took tea at five 
o’clock, and she always drank claret with 
her dinner and her luncheon. Mrs. Her- 
bert here again explained that her lodger 
went out to a great many meals, and she 
had supposed she had friends in the city. 
Also she reiterated her statement that Miss 
Farrington was often away over-night, and 
that on such occasions she usually returned 
and began her work quite early next morn- 
ing. 

Mrs. Herbert had noticed that her lodger 
had not much variety in the way of gowns, 
always wearing either a blue and white or 


a black and white striped dress made very 
plainly, but with a certain air about them 
which she remembered to have noticed in 
the gowns of Lady Annabel Rockwell, with 
whom she had once been in service. Asked 
if there were anything else about her lodg- 
er that reminded her of the said Lady 
Annabel Rockwell, Mrs. Herbert could not 
remember anything except that Lady Anna- 
bel had eyes of colour and expression the 
same as Miss Farrington. 

Sometimes her lodger had dressed herself 
in a very becoming frock of fuzzy, gauzy 
goods, as Mrs. Herbert described it. It was 
of blue, and Harriet had fastened it down 
the back, and it had always seemed to 
Harriet at such times that Miss Farrington 
must be expecting someone to call, yet 
always Miss Farrington had eaten her din- 
ner in solitary state in a gown the bodice 
of which was cut very low. Mrs. Herbert 
here remarked that she had some neighbours 
who would have described this dress as 
“scandalously low,’’ but that she, Mrs. Her- 
bert, recognized it as being “properly low, 
as suited the quality in England.’’ 

The lady had never spoken of any rela- 
tives or friends, except when she first call- 
ed to inspect the rooms. Then she said she 
had been recommended to come by friends, 
but Mrs. Herbert had not deemed -it “prop- 
er or becoming’’ in her humble self to in- 
quire the names of these friends, so she 
had not the slightest idea by whom Miss 
Farrington had been sent. 

One morning, after Miss Farrington had 
read a letter which Mrs. Herbert handed 
to her, she turned to Mrs. Herbert, who 
was making the bed, and said — 

“This evening, -at eight o’clock, a gen- 
tleman, very tall, with light hair and light 
moustache, and blue eyes with a smile in 
them, will call to see me. Whether or not 
he gives a name, bring him up to my sit- 
ting-room at once.’’ 

At the stated time the gentleman, who 
hurriedly gave a name which sounded to 
Mrs. Herbert like “Sinton,’’ had called and 
was shown up, and on announcing him, Mrs. 
Herbert had noticed that Miss Farrington 
was wearing the wonderful blue dress. The 
gentleman had remained till about ten 
o’clock, and during his stay Mrs. Herbert 
had heard him laugh several times, and he 
was joined quite frequently by Miss Far- 
rington’s delightful little laugh. They seem- 
ed to be having a very merry time, indeed. 
When the gentleman had departed. Miss 
Farrington had gone down to the front 
door with him, and was again heard to 
laugh as she bade him good night. Yet Mrs. 
Herbert was quite sure that an hour later 
she had heard the sound of sobbing from 
Miss Farrington’s bedroom, which was next 
to her own. All this was about eight days 
before Miss Farrington left. 

A few days after this Mrs. Herbert had 
taken her lodger another letter which 
seemed to excite the 'lady very much. She 
told Mrs. Herbert to hurry with the doing- 
up of the room, not to w'ait to dust, and 
not to disturb her for the rest of the day. 
Between eleven and twelve o’clock that 
morning Mrs. Herbert heard the front door 
slam. Both she and Harriet were in the 
basement at the time. Going upstairs to 
Miss B’arrington’s room, they found she had 
gone out, and they knew it was she who 

• had slammed the door. Very late that night 

40 


Miss Farrington had let herself in with her 
latch-key, and, meeting Harriet in the hall 
— Harriet happening to be up later than 
usual herself — Miss Farrington said she was 
obliged to leave New York the next Wed- 
nesday, and the next morning she paid Mrs. 
Herbert a month’s rental in lieu of notice. 
All this had happened on a Friday. 

Until the following Tuesday Miss Farring- 
ton had appeared to be particularly busy, 
and she did a very great deal of writing. 
She looked very much upset and put out ' 
about something, and her appetite was not 
so good as it had been. She ate little and 
worked much ; she went to bed late and got 
up early; and on Sunday she was away all 
day and did not return until early Monday 
morning. On Tuesday morning she packed 
her trunks, thanking Harriet for her offer 
of assistance, but declining it. In the early 
afternoon an expressman had called to get 
the two trunks. 

No, Miss Farrington did not herself se« 
the expressman. She had gone out before 
he came, and she had given Harriet the 
money to pay for the trunks, telling her 
to take the cheques and put them on the 
dressing-table, which Harriet did. Harriet 
noticed that Miss Farrington had kept back 
a brown Gladstone bag of small size, for 
packing the few little things she had not 
put in her trunks. 

At ten o’clock that evening Miss Farring- 
ton again went out, carefully locking the 
doors of both her rooms before she went. 
She said that she had some matters to at- 
tend to before going to the dock, which she 
would be obliged to do some time during the 
night, as the ship was to sail very early in 
the morning, and the passengers must be 
aboard that night. As Mrs. Herbert and her 
daughter usually went to bed at ten o’clock. 
Miss Farrington said good-bye to them then, 
saying she had the latch-key and would let 
herself in when she returned. She also said 
that someone would call for her in a cab, 
probably about midnight, but that she would 
herself listen for the door-bell, so that Mrs. 
Herbert need not be disturbed by so late 
a ring. 

Mrs. Herbert did not hear Miss Farrington 
return, neither did she hear the door-bell at 
midnight, though she head someone outside 
Miss Farrington’s door. Looking out then 
into the hall she saw Miss Farrington’s door 
open and a lady just entering it. She knew 
that this must be Miss Farrington’s friend 
who was to call for her, and that Miss Far- 
rington had just let her in and had gone into 
the room ahead of her. 

She could not see the face of the lady 
who went into Miss Farrington’s room, as 
her back was toward Mrs. Herbert as she 
entered. The lady was dressed entirely in 
brown — brown dress, brown coat, brown hat, 
brown gloves, and brown veil, or “fall net,’’ 
as Mrs. Herbert called it. The hall was well 
lighted with the gas which had been left 
burning so that she could easily distinguish 
the colour of the lady’s costume. The lady 
was of medium height, quite a bit shorter 
than Miss Farrington. 

The two remained in Miss Farrington’s 
room about half an hour, as Mrs. Herbert 
thought, and she distinctly heard voices, 
the one which she recognized as Miss Far- 
rington’s low English voice, and the other 
distinctly American, though not unpleasant. 
What was said she could not distinguish. 
Suddenly Miss Farrington’s door was heard 
to shut, and then Mrs. Herbert heard steps 


on the stairs. Looking out again into the 
hall she found that Miss Farrington had 
turned off the gas. Then she heard the 
American voice say, “Quiet now!’’ in a 
low whisper. Immediately then, through the 
darkness. Miss Farrington called up from 
the lower hall — 

“Oh, poor Mrs. Herbert, did I waken 
you? I’m so sorry. Good-bye again and 
God bless you and Harriet, and be sure 
you Mill hear from me again. I’ve turned 
off the gas, so you won’t have to get out 
of bed again, and I have left my latch-key 
on the dressing-table.’’ 

Then the front door was closed, and that 
was the last Mrs. Herbert ever saw or 
heard of her lodger. From her own room, 
which had one window facing Washington 
Square, she saw a cab turn round in front 
of the house, then heard a rapid driving 
avay, as though there were fear of being 
late. 

While relating her story Mrs. Herbert re- 
ceived the scoldings of the District At- 
torney in tearful protest that she “’oped 
she knew her place, not to happear cur- 
ious about her betters,’’ when he showed 
his annoyance that she was unable to de- 
scribe, except very hazil>, the appearance 
of the lady in brown who had called for 
her lodger on that fateful Tuesday at mid- 
night. Harriet’s examination was even 
less illuminating, for she had slept through 
the entire proceedings, having a room on 
the top floor. 

Mrs. Herbert’s description of the gentle- 
man who had called was also not one that 
met with his approval for exhaustiveness — 
“tall and blonde with merry blue eyes, and a 
haccent which might be Hamerican and then 
again it might be Henglish,’’ was certainly 
not distinctive, but, on the contrary, rather 
all-embracing. 

Yet when Mrs. Herbert had gone her*sigh- 
ing tearful way back to Washington Square, 
to weep with Harriet over the direful fat© 
of “her sweet Ladyship,’’ the District At- 
torney nodded his head to one of his as- 
sistants in a pleased sort of way, and went 
over to Pontin’s for luncheon. 

CHAPTER XVI. 

THE DEPOSITION OF THE CABMAN. 

Soon after Mrs. Herbert had made her 
statement at the District Attorney’s office 
the cabman who had driven the lady in 
brown to the house in Washington Square 
and afterwards drove to the dock of the 
White Star Line was found. 

He turned out to be an honest German- 
American of easy, contemplative tempera- 
ment, given to minding his own business 
to such an extent that his testimony was not 
so valuable as it might otherwise have 
been, though it was by far the most im- 
portant clue to the disappearance of Frances 
Farrington which had yet been secured. 

He stated that at about a quarter before 
twelve on the night of February 14th he 
was summoned to the kerb on Broadway, 
near Eleventh Street, by a lady in brown 
wearing a veil, who handed him a five-dol- 
lar bill, and said quietly — 

“I want you to drive to the foot of Elev- 
enth Street to the White Star Steamship 
Dock, Pier 48. But before going there turn 
round and take me over to Washington 
Square, No. — . I must go in there, and you 
are to wait for me. I don’t know how long 
I shall be in there, but certainly not an 

41 


hour. After that you are to drive over to 
the dock.” 

The five-dollar bill, which the cabman 
knew was excellent overpay for so short 
a trip, even including- the wait, put him in 
an exceedingly good humour, and he had 
driven the lady in brown to the house in 
Washington Square with a flying horse. 

She had got out and gone up the steps, 
and evidently someone was waiting for her 
at the door, which was immediately opened 
and closed after her. He had not noticed 
the appearance of the person who let her 
in, for the door was only opened wide 
enough for her to pass in, and it was 
quickly shut. 

Having been up late the night before, or 
rather having had no sleep during the day, 
the cabman declared that he felt somewhat 
sleepy, and he fell asleep on the box while 
waiting for the lady to reappear. He did 
not hear anybody come out of the house, 
and was only awakened by the swish of the 
brown skirts of the lady who was just 
stepping into the cab. She said — 

‘‘Drive to the dock at the foot of West 
Eleventh Street as I told you.” 

‘‘Are you both in?” asked the cabman 
sheepishly. 

‘‘Yes,” she had answered, laughing, ‘‘we 
are both in. You must have been very 
sound asleep indeed!” 

He had then driven out of Washington 
Square into Fifth Avenue, turning into 
Eleventh Street, until they reached St. Vin- 
cent’s Hospital at Seventh Avenue, where 
the Christopher Street car track began 
Noting this, the lady in brown had directed 
him to turn back into Tenth Street, as she 
found the jolting uncomfortable; so he had 
driven that way, and so arrived at the dock 
in West Street. On the way he had occa- 
sionally heard talking in the cab, but no- 
body gave him any directions but the lady 
in brown. 

Arrived near the pier, she had put her 
head out of the door, opening it slightly, 
and said, ‘‘Drive up a little to the right 
where you see all those people, and then 
stop. We shall not get out just yet, so 
wait a few minutes.” 

A crowd of people were gathered at the 
place which the lady indicated, many of 
whom, he thought, were looking at a small 
building in West Street, which was afire. 
He had drawn up his horse, and must have 
waited fifteen minutes or longer when he 
tapped on the cab door and asked if they 
would like to get out now. There was no 
answer. He waited a little longer and 
tapped again, and still there was no an- 
swer. Then he jumped from the box and 
noted that all the cab curtains had been 
drawn, and he was surprised to find the 
cab vacant. Hooking about, he saw the 
lady in brown some distance away, rapidly 
walking past the White Star Pier and near 
the Cunard and Wilson piers, and she 
seemed to be turning to the left. There 
were several people quite close to her, and 
directly in front of her was a woman con- 
siderably taller than she, who, as he re- 
membered it, was dressed in black. He 
turned about and drove away, and had 
thought no more of the occurrence until he 
had been found by the detectives. 

He was questioned closely about the 
looks of the tall woman who had been di- 
rectly in front of the lady in brown after 
they had got out of the cab, but he said 


she was then too far for him to get a dis- 
tinct view, and he had merely taken it for 
granted that she had been the second oc- 
cupant of his cab, and had taken no fur- 
ther interest, having been well paid for the 
trip in advance. Her dress might have 
been a striped one for all he knew, or she 
might have been wearing a long black coat. 

He could not tell for sure; he merely re- 
membered that she wore very dark clothes. 
Whether the two spoke together after they 
got out of the cab he could not say. In 
short, he declared he had told everything 3| 
he knew. - I 

Asked if he could identify the lady In^ 
brown if he saw her again, he felt very.® 
sure that he could, for once she had lifted® 
up her veil from her face when she spoke ^ 
to him. He believed that he would also 1 
know the brown costume again, as it was .4 
rather peculiarly made, and he remeinbered ^ 
that it rustled very distinctly. It was this | 
rustle that woke him up as the lady was | 
getting back into the cab in Washington I 
Square. L 

He was then asked how it was that he * 
had not heard the rustle when the ladies m 
had got out of the cab at the dock, and ,■ 
he could not imagine why that was. Yes, i 
he remembered now that he had told the 
lady that it was the rustle that woke him , 
up, when she had laughed at him about 
his sleepiness. . 

This latter part of his statement, though 
apparently of little interest to him, cer- 
tainly made an impression on the District 
Attorney, for he had him repeat it twice 
to make sure that there could be no mis- , 
take about it. The District Attorney saw -■ 
that it showed there was evidently some 
important reason why the lady in brown 
and her companion had desired to get .out _ 
of the cab without being seen by the cab- ' 
man, and the lady having been warned that 
her dress made a noise loud enough to at- 
tract attention, must have held it about 
her in such a way that it could not make " 
the slightest sound. 

The cabman did remember that during = 
the wait at the dock he had himself been - 
interested in watching the fire, and that ; 
his head had been turned in the direction j 
of West Street. This would account for 
his not seeing the two ladies get out of the 
door nearest the pier. Certainly, he ad- . 
mitted. if they had desired to get out with- 
out his knowing it they could have done so 
by being careful not to make a noise by - 
turning the handle of the door. Indeed, it 
was more than likely that the door had not 
been properly shut again after the lady in 
brown had spoken to the cabman. Ques- 
tioned again about the curtains of the cab 
windows, the cabman was absolutely sure 
that they were up when the lady had first 
taken the cab in Broadway, and up while 
she waited in the Washington Square. He 
judged they had been pulled down instantly 
by the lady who first got into the cab be- 
fore he drove away from the Square. He 
was asked by the District Attorney to try 
to ‘‘refresh his mind” and see if he could 
remember having heard a single word that 
had been spoken inside the cab while he 
was driving to the dock, and he promised 
he w'ould. A few hours later, as he sat 
over a mug of beer, he suddenly remem- 
bered something, a whole sentence which, 
it? seemed to him, was of tremendous im- 
port, and again he visited the District At- 


42 


torney. What he now remembered will an- 
pear later on. ^ 

Through subsequent investigations no 
other persons could be discovered who had 
women in the vicinity of 
the \\hite Star Pier or near the Wilson 
and Cunard docks. This was perhaps due to 
the fact that most of the passengers for 
the Majestic” had already arrived and 
gone aboard and to bed, while the mid- 
night loungers about the neighbourhood 
were intent upon looking at the West 
Street fire. 

CHAPTER XVII 

THE DISCOVERY OP THE MISSING LINK 

Never before in the history of myste- 
rious disappearances in New York had the 
newspapers printed so many columns in 
which so little real information was given 
to the public as iij the case which now be- 
came known as “The Englishwoman Mys- 
tery.” 

Reporters sent out with instructions to 
bring in three columns, four columns, or 
five columns, as the case might be, brought 
back the desired number of columns, and 
thus added exultantly to their space-bills, 
yet the information which Ihey professed to 
give concerning the most celebrated mys- 
tery of the day was not obtained from the 
police authorities nor at the head-quarters 
of the District Attorney. All the comfort 
they got from the latter gentleman was a 
declaration that he and his assistants were 
working day and night with very satisfac- 
tory results, that he was in possession of 
valuable “clues,” and that an arrest or ar- 
rests might be looked for soon. 

The District Attorney was somewhat of 
a favourite with the “newspaper boys,” and 
it was generally believed that he had taken 
some of them slightly into his confidence 
on the condition that they keep out of print 
certain important features of the case, and 
that they had loyally kept to the bargain. 
Nevertheless, space must be filled, scare- 
heads manufactured, and the public proper- 
ly agitated about the disappearance of the 
woman who was variously named as “Lady 
Frances Farrington,” “Lady Farrington*,” 
without prefix of Christian name, and in 
several instances as “Her Grace.” 

As for ’portraits of the missing woman, 
they were published by the dozens in every 
conceivable pose, though, curiously enough, 
always she wore a striped costume of some 
sort, whether it were cut high or low, fast- 
ening in the front or down the back. In 
the making of these portraits artists on 
certain of the evening papers must have 
grown opulent, since the manufacture of 
portraits in newpaper studios is a good 
paying business, especially if they run to 
over a two-column cut, and those of Fran- 
ces Fennimore Farrington often filled five 
columns across, and took up half the length 
of the page. 

She was represented with golf-sticks, in 
tennis costume, in ball gown, in reception 
dress, in summer frock; in steamer dress 
sitting on a steamer chair; seated at a 
table at afternoon tea, with long, aris- 
tocratic fingers daintily grasping the tea- 
pot handle; she reposed on a divan, with 
pad and pencil, engaged in literary com- 
position; she "^eped from behind a window 
pane in Washington Square — a window in 
Mrs. Herbert’s house most carefully drawn; 


and she was shown gliding languidly among 
the trees of thd park, and stooping down 
from a great height to speak kindly to be- 
draggled babies and pat the backs of un- 
kempt street dogs. 

And always tall, very tall, indeed, they 
made this lady of the striped gown, till 
sometimes in the pictures where she was 
depicted en promenade, her well-poised 
head with its patrician lines seemed almost 
in danger of getting lost among the 
branches of trees and the projections of 
lamp-posts. 

Not only did the New York papers make 
the mysterious disappearance their leading 
topic. Even the San Francisco papers pub- 
lished daily telegraphic reports on the sub- 
ject, copied portraits from the New York 
papers, and had scathing editorials con- 
cerning the slowness of the New York 
police department, which did nothing, appa- 
rently, but make a daily declaration that 
it had obtained fresh “clues” and was on 
-the track of the murderers; while as for 
the Chicago papers, they found difficulty In 
containing themselves in polite language 
when they considered the fame of the lost 
lady and the fact that she must be known, 
at least by sight, to hundreds of New 
Yorkers. 

Special detectives were appointed by cer- 
tain newspapers to drag the water sur- 
rounding Manhattan Island; to sit on Mrs. 
Herbert’s doorstep in Washington Square; 
to apply to her in the guise of would-be 
lodgers seeking .such accommodations as 
she had to offer. Had it not been for the 
fact that she had been forbidden to let her 
late lodger’s rooms to anybody- until the 
mystery was cleared up, the English land- 
lady would have made a tidy sum of money 
by letting them at four times their regular 
price to a young newspaper woman detec- 
tive. This young woman got a peep into the 
rooms while she was on the second floor 
resting from her ascent of the stairs. She 
had calmly opened the door of a room, 
which she thought must be the right one, 
saying to Harriet Herbert, “Is this room 
for rent?” Harriet had replied that it was 
already let, which was true, for the au- 
thorities paid Mrs. Herbert a reason- 
able price for allowing it to be empty. But 
Harriet opened her mouth wide at the offer 
which the young woman made her if she 
would put out the present tenant. 

The young reporter, however, made good 
use of her opportunity to visit the late 
home of the woman of whom her paper 
always spoke as “Her Grace.” She wrote 
a full description of the house, and then 
dictated “notes” to an artist, whd immedi- 
ately made a photograph of “Her Grace” 
at tea in Washington Square, waited on 
by her landlady’s daughter. 

For a time the authorities of Scotland 
Yard in London were also at work prying 
after the antecedents and the relatives of 
the missing Englishwoman, but they- finally 
gave it up as being none of their affair. 
Several New York papers and one Chicago 
journal had private detectives at work in 
London and in small country places where 
the name of Farrington or Fennimore was 
said to be known. Finally these returned 
to New York and began again to walk about 
the White Star dock or sit on Mrs. Her- 
bert’s front steps. 

In the midst of all the newspaper ex- 


43 


citement, the police department kept re- 
markably quiet, though not inactive, and 
when the District Attorney stated that he 
had traluable clues which he had no present 
intention of discussing, he spoke with 
reason. Daily now, and sometimes two or 
three times a day, he received visits from 
a woman who was always allowed to see 
him immediately without giving her name 
to the clerks in the outer office, and always 
after her departure a smile of satisfaction 
flitted across his face. Daily now he and 
his chief assistant would refer to the “chain,” 
and the additional links needed to give it 
complete length and strength, and one day 
they got the missing link in the form of a 
statement from an oysterman who did busi- 
ness at the foot of Gansevoort Street in 
the vicinity of Pier 56^. 

The oysterman, Charles Anderson by 
name, had discovered the body of a woman 
floating on the water immediately surround- 
ing the row of oyster scows which are 
situated at that pier. He deposed that he 
had been standing leisurely at the back of 
the third scow in the row, on the small 
projection that served for a sort of back 
porch. The oysterman was whittling at a 
stick and looking at a large pile of shells 
on a sloop near by when his eyes, roving 
back toward his own feet, noted an object 
gradually rising to the surface. It was 
after eight o’clock and rather dark in the 
vicinity of his scow, yet the few lights that 
were scattered about were sufficient to show 
him that the object was suspiciously like 
a human body in appearance and that it 
wore skirts. 

Now the oysterman had happened to read 
in the papers of the disappearance of the 
young Englishwoman, and he remembered 
that a reward had been offered for in- 
formation leading to her discovery, dead or 
alive, or information concerning the where- 
abouts of her kidnappers or murderers. He 
said that it was his recollection of the of- 
fered reward that kept him from crying 
out and making his discovery public, and 
it was also his recollection of the reward 
that made him steady and strong to go 
quietly from the porch of the scow, step- 
ping across to the bow of the sloop, which 
would get him nearer the water’s surface, 
pick up the body in his arms, carry it into 
the scow through the back door, lock that 
door, and then, going to the nearest public 
telephone, inform police head-quarters of 
his discovery, and then go back to the scow 
to guard the body which lay among the 
oyster shells. 

Immediately that night the body was 
taken in charge by the authorities and con- 
veyed to the Morgue. It was that of a tall 
woman whose age it was difficult to fix with 
any degree of certainty, for the face was 
disfigured and unrecognizable, but the 
Coroner’s physician who made the examina- 
tion and performed the autopsy, said that 
there was every reason to believe that the 
woman was quite young, and that he would 
vouch for thirty-two as being the greatest 
number of her years, though he inclined to 
the opinion that she was well under thirty. 

She had dark brown hair, and, at the time 
of the finding of the body, her eyes were 
hazel. She wore a well-fitting black and 
white striped dress, which, though shrunk- 
en and faded by its contact with the water, 
was in such condition as to show that it was 
of fine and expensive material and had been 


made by a dressmaker, or more probably 
a ladies’ tailor, of repute, although no name 
was on the waist-band. It was severely 
simple and bore evidence of being an Eng- 
lish tailor-made costume, as did also the 
long black coat worn over it. The shoes 
which the woman had on were of English 
make it could be seen, yet thty, too, were 
without sign or symbol of their manufac- 
turer. Her underwear was fine and plain, 
hand-made, and without markings. It was 
the opinion of the coroner’s physician at 
the inquest that the body had been in the 
water about five weeks, and had been well 
preserved by the cold salt water in which 
it had lain. 

When Mrs. Herbert arrived at the Morgue 
she could tell nothing by the pitiably hor- 
rible face which had been injured by some 
paddle wheel, but she testified that the 
height of the woman and the clothes she 
wore, especially the striped dress and the 
hat which was still pinned rustily to the 
brown hair, convinced her that the body 
was, without doubt, that of her late lodger, 
Frances Fennimore Farrington, and her 
testimony was borne out by that of her 
daughter Harriet. They were both instruct- 
ed to keep quiet for the present, and not 
to speak of the finding of the body. After 
their departure, the underwear in the trunks 
left by Frances Farrington at the White 
Star dock was compared with the soiled, 
water-soaked linen which enfolded the body 
found by the oysterman. It proved to be 
of the same w'eave and like it in every 
particular. 

So it was that the District Attorney came 
into his own — the Missing Link. 

And at the very hour when this body lay 
among the oyster shells in the oyster scow 
hundreds of New Yorkers filled a theatre 
in Broadway to see the first production of 
the dramatization of Frances Fennimore 
Farrington’s great novel, “The Workers.” 
Before the curtain rose on the first act the 
manager went to the front of the stage and 
stated that before the disappearance of the 
gifted author she had made every arrange- 
ment with him in writing for the production 
of her play, even going so far as to sug- 
gest certain persons for certain parts, 
which suggestions he had complied with 
wherever it was possible. Already he had 
delayed the production, hoping against 
hope, that some word would come explain- 
ing the mystery of the^ author’s disappear- 
ance. but now he felt, in justice to the the- 
atre-going public which he served, that 
this great play should no longer be kept 
back from them. He spoke feelingly of the 
talent, aye, the genius, of the brilliant 
young playwright, and tears filled his eyes 
and sobs burst from the audience when he 
told of his regret that she could not stand 
before them that night at the call of “Au- 
thor!” to receive their plaudits. 

In the second row of the first balcony, 
directly in the" centre of the building, sat 
Margaret Allison and Carolyn Blaine, keen- 
ly watching the stage and listening with 
close attention. In the middle of the last 
act Margaret bent her feverish looking face 
toward Carolyn and whispered — 

“Tell me, Carolyn, what do you think of 
this play?” 

Carolyn looked at her lovingly, sadly, and 
- pressed her hand under her opera cloak. 


44 


“It is a great play, Margaret,” she said 
softly. 

“Ah!” murmured Margaret, and she 
drew in her breath as though she suffered 
pain. 

CHAPTER XVIII. 

MISS MORTON PAYS HER DEBTS. 

It was the morning after the opening 
n.ght of “The Workers,” the play which 
the newspapers united in calling “the 
greatest play which a New York audience 
had witnessed during a decade.” 

Margaret, at her work-table in her study, 
was looking over the criticisms of the play 
in the various morning journals. Annette 
was tidying the rooms. She had tripped 
through the study, past Margaret, into the 
bathroom and bedroom. She gathered the 
soiled linen together, putting fresh towels 
and bureau scarf in its place, and now she 
lingered lovingly over Margaret’s dressing- 
table. giving careful, thoughtful rubs to the 
already brilliant silver, luxuriously spread 
out upon it. Suddenly Margaret was star- 
tled by an exclamation from the bedroom. 

“Sacre Bleu! Der Teufel! Santa Maria! 
Diavolo!” 

Margaret smothered the laugh that 
sprang to her lips and eyes at this pic- 
turesque conglomeration of continental 
profanity. 

“Annette dear,” she called, “what have 
you done? Such a profusion of swear- 
words ik shocking! Have you broken any of 
my cut-glass?” 

Annette walked haltingly to the doorway, 
and a look at her tear-stained little face 
quickly changed the expression on Mar- 
garet’s own, which had become merry in 
spite of her professed indignation. 

“No, Mees Allison, I nevaire break any- 
thing of your preety bottle. I theenk about 
the very bad man which make the women 
trouble. Always the woman she pay up the 
bill — like they say in this country. Always 
she go prison, she have the baby, she do the 
wrong when she love a man!” 

“Annette, child!” exclaimed Margaret, 
drawing the little Corsican girl to her. 
“Are you in fresh trouble of any sort? 

Has any man harmed you more than I 
know? Tell me!” 

Annette kissed the soft white hand held 
out to her. “No, Mees Allison, it do no- 
thing more than you know. I theenk not 
now about myself. It is Marie, my friend, 
which have so much trouble and lose all 
her clothes to the landlady which she pay 
not her board to. She the friend which 
you gave me the clothes for, the nice 

preety dress and the hat and everything 
what you do. You remember, Mees Allison, 
how last week you give me the things for 
my friend?” 

“Yet, Annette, and does she need more 
help? Shall I give you ten dollars for 
her?” 

“Mees Allison, I hear not from her since 

I gave the clothes. She say then she go to 

Sheecago to find that bad man which she 
love, and I say no, Mees Allison find you a 
place to work at the hair-dressing, and I 
tell her not go. He not worth to find and 
marry. I tell her it is the love for the bad 
man which make me do the 'wicked thing. 
But now I hear no more from her, I hunt 
for her but I do not find.” 

Margaret was patting the girl’s hand 
now. “Poor Marie!” she said. “Annette, 


do you know who the man is? Did you ever 
see him? I think if I only had something 
to go on I might make some investigation.” 

“I never see him,” sobbed Annette, “and 
Marie she never tell me his name. He from 
South America, maybe Brazeel. I hate the 
Brazeelian men: You know why, Mees Al- 
lison?” 

Yes, dear, I know,” answered Margaret ' 
softly, for she remembered that Annette’s 
lover had been of that land. Then she con- 
tinued : 

“Annette, I w'ill try to think within the 
next few days what is to be done, but it is 
so hard with nothing to go on, or, at least, 
so very little. But I will try to study it 
out; and now you must go to the other 
rooms and attend to the other guests. We 
must not forget that for a few weeks long- 
er you are chambermaid here for these two 
floors, and not my own maid. Ah! What 
gay times we shall all have very soon 
now!” 

^ She tried to brighten up the girl with 
laughing, but Annette returned but a sorry 
little smile. 

“I have go now to Mees Morton’s room, 
Diable!” 

“Very well, then, and come to me again 
this afternoon.” 

Annette stood with her hack to the door, 
duster and whisk-broom in hand. 

“Mees Allison,” she said, “I love you 
better than the Holy Virgin. If she tell 
me do one thing, and you say no, then I 
do whait you say, always, always!” 

“You must do what is right, dear, no 
matter who tells you to do it.” 

“No.” protested Annette. “If people do 
wicked to you, I shall do it back to them. 
Alwmys the wrong turns to you I shall do 
back.” 

“No. no,” said Margaret. “You must do 
wrong turns to nobody.” 

“Yes, I do it,” returned Annette, and 
opening the door of the vestibule, she 
walked briskly away. 

Miss Helen Morton, leading iady in Miss 
Allison’s successful comedy which had now 
run for so long a time, was sipping choco- 
late and eating toast when Annette reached 
her rooms. 

“You are late, Annette,” she said. “Hava 
you done Miss Allison’s rooms before 
mine?” 

“I do the work which is my duty,” an- 
swered Annette doggedly. 

Miss Morton laughed. She' did not catch 
the gleam of hatred and distrust in the 
girl’s eyes as she passed on to the bath- 
rooim. 

“Annette,” she said, “is Miss Allison in 
her rooms this morning?” 

“No!” replied Annette shortly. 

“You say she is not at home?” 

“No! She go out!” snapped Annette. 

“Are you sure?” pursued the actress. 
“Oh, so very sure!” called back Annette, 
as she banged at the porcelain bath-tub 
with every intention pf shipping It, and 
thus, she hoped, allow Miss Morton to get 
a painful cut when next she was in it. “I 
say she ees out, and she be out all morn- 
ing.” 

It was Annette’s intention to save Miss 
Allison the trouble pf having to entertain 
Miss Morton, and she believed that this 
object would be accomplished by declaring 
that the lady was out. However, it would 
appear that the assurance of Miss Allison’s 

45 


absence from home was just what Miss 
Morton desired, for almost immediately af- 
ter Annette’s deiJarture, she slipped off the 
rustling silk skirt which she had on, donned 
a soft grey noiseless costume, examined 
carefully a bunch of keys which she took 
from a safe, also a roll of greenback notes 
and descended to the floor below. She did 
not make use of the elevator, and she 
peered down the stairs to ascertain if any 
of the maids or the ha'llboys could be seen 
as she stepped softly from stair to stair. 
At the foot of the stairs she made a quick 
turn, and at the door of Margarets apart- 
ment she stopped and listened at the let- 
ter-box. There was not a sound from the 
suite beyond. Cautiously she pressed a flat 
key into the lock, softly then she stepped 
into the vestibule and pushed a bolt. _ 
The first door from the vestibule opened 
into the drawing-room, which, in turn, 
opened into the room Margaret used as a 
study, and looking through into this ruom, 
the astonished actress saw Margaret sitting 
at her desk. Quickly Miss Morton stuck 
the bunch of keys which she held into an 
underskirt pocket, then cried out gaily as 
Margaret looked up with an excHamation 

“Good morning. Miss Allison. I rapped 
but could not make you hear. Did you 
know that your outer door was open? me 
latch could not have caught.” 

“Really!” said Margaret, without a per- 
ceptible change of countenance. “That mus^ 
have been very careless of me, and the 
first time it ever happened, I assure you. 


Will you sit down?” „ 

“I know you will approve of my errand, 
began Miss Morton, then suddenly she turn- 
ed from the chair that was offered her. i 
must have dropped my handkerchief m the 
hall. Excuse me just a moment while 1 
look,” she said, and she rushed toward the 
vestibule, noiselesssly pushed away the bolt 
which she had fastened on entering when 
she believed fhe rooms to be empty. It 
Margaret suspected the manoeuvre, she 
made no sign when Miss Morton returned 
to the chair ostentatiously flourishing an 
embroidered handkerchief which in the ves- 
tibule she had whipped from her shopping 

“As I said,” began Miss Morton again, 
laughing, “I have come on a welcome er- 
rand. I am here to pay my debts.” 

Now from the bag she produced a roll of 
bills, counting out fifteen tens, which she 
laid on the desk. . 

“You are sure you can spare it? asaea 
Margaret. “I fear that even with the in- 
crease in salary I Anally succeeded in get- 
ting Watkinson to make for you, you are 
behindhand with other loans from people 
who cannot afford to wait so well as I. 

“I’ve had a windfall,” laughed Miss Mor- 
ton ‘“Small legacy— not much— from a dis- 
tant relative. Yes, I can actually pay every 
debt I owe now, thank Heaven!” 

“Well, if that is the case, I am certainly 
glad for vou. for it must be a relief to 
your mind,” answered Margaret quietly, 
and she brought forth her own pocket-book 
and stuffed the notes into it. 

“You went to the play last night, oi 
course?” said Miss Morton. “That is the 
drawback of being an actress oneself. One 
can so seldom manage to go to see other 
great actresses, except at side-show mat- 
inee performances.”" 


“Yes, I saw it,” answered Margaret. ' 

“What did you think of it, calmly now, 
without prejudice?” asked Miss Morton, 
with a sneer only half wrapped up in a 
smile. 

“Why do you say ‘without prejudice’ and 
‘calmly’?” asked Margaret, glancing up 
with a queer look. “Do you think me a 
woman ot prejudices and likely to judge 
without proper calmness?” 

“Oh, no, not usually. But in this par- 
ticular case, you see, I thought you might 
have some prejudice against the author of 
the piece.” 

“Well,” returned Margaret, “though it 
might be allowed that 1 could have some 
prejudice in criticizing or estimating the 
worth of this particular play, whether for 
or against it we will not discuss, I will say 
that the audience certainly seemed to 
think well of it, and that I would not be 
disposed to dispute their verdict.” 

“You mean that it is really a great epoch- 
making play?” asked Miss Morton, scanning 
Margaret’s face. 

“How can one say a play is ‘epoch-mak- 
ing’ when it has been performed but once? 
Who can judge of that but the people. who _ 
live in the years to come? But I will sayHB 
that I like the play — yes, I certainly can say * 
that!” 

Miss Morton laughed. “You surely ara^ 
not enthusiastic!” jp 

“My enthusiasms are sometimes controll- ^ 
ed!” returned Margaret. 

“What do you think has become of the r 
woman, anyway?” asked Miss Morton. 

‘What woman?” > 

“Why, the author of the play we were 
discussing — Prances Pennimore Parrington, 
of course! Do you believe she’s dead?” 

“I have no reason to think that! Why 
should I?” 

“It seems to be the general opinion. Pive 
weeks, and not a word of her alive!” v 

“Well,” returned Margaret, “let the bril- 
liant police department of New York solve 
the mystery! Pive weeks, and not a thing . 
done so far to explain it! Actually, it is too ■ 
absurd!” ■ 

The two women had now gone into the I 
drawing-room. Captain Jinks following at' 
Margaret’s side. ? 

“He is a dear dog!” murmured Miss Mor- - 
ton, putting forth a hand to stroke him. The 
dog lifted his great brown eyes to her, then • 
drew back, at a slight pressure on his neck 
from Margaret. 

“Is it true, the story abdut his being a 
pick-pocket’s dog?” pursued Miss Morton. 
“Come here. Captain Jinks, and open this 
bag!” She held out her shopping bag to the 
dog while yet waiting for an answer to her 
question, and Captain Jinks merely gazed 
back at the actress without moving. 

“Who told you such a story about my 
dog?” asked Margaret angrily. 

“Doesn’t everybody know it?” asked Miss 
Morton. 

“No, everybody does not know it. Indeed, 
you yourself did not know it until very 
lately!” 

“Dear me! Because I never happened to 
speak of it before, does that prove I didn’t 
know that Captain Jinks has the shadiest 
past of any dog in New York? Let me see, 
what was the real name of his master, and 
where is he?” 

“Shady pasts, whether of men, women, or 
dogs, are not supposed to be referred to 

46 


in their presence, so we will spare Captain 
Jinks’ feelings,” said' Margaret brusquely. 

“Shall you be in this afternoon?” asked 
Miss Morton. 

“I presume so, but I have much to do, so 
I shall not be able to receive visitors. I say 
this. Miss Morton, because you have done 
me the honour to make frequent calls upon 
my time recently, and I have many inter- 
ests, and much responsibility, and just now 
I am particularly engaged in finishing a 
book and in other matters.” 

The actress rose to go. “I was not intend- 
ing to visit you this afternoon,” she said. 
“Fact is, I am going out to hunt for another 
job, for I don’t believe your play will run 
very much longer, and I must keep myself 
before the public.” 

“There will be no difficulty in your getting 
another part in another play, I am sure, 
though Watkinson says my play is good for 
another year.” 

“I doubt it!” said Miss Morton, and now 
she stood at the vestibule door, “Good 
morning!” and Margaret went back to her 
study, and this time she was careful to shut 
her door. 

CHAPTER XIX 
THE DISTRICT ATTORNEY’S 
COUP D’ETAT. 

In the afternoon of Miss Morton’s some- 
w'hat peculiar intrusion upon her privacy, 
Margaret sat in her bedroom in the midst of 
confusion, reading and re-reading some 
characters written in shorthand upon two 
torn bits of light brown wrapping paper. 
There was a light in her eyes and a smile 
upon her lips as she pored over the closely 
crowded forms which seemed to show that 
the writer, short of writing paper and even 
a pen — since a lead-pencil had been used — 
had endeavoured to put just as long a com- 
munication as possible into small space. 
There was a knock on her door and quickly 
she stuffed the paper into an opening of her 
bodice, ere she admitted Carolyn, who had 
stepped in for some tea and gossip on her 
way home from scohol. 

“What an upset!” exclaimed Miss Blaine, 
as Margaret conducted her to the bedroom. 
“I have always considered you the neatest 
of the neat, but here I can’t find a chair 
nor even the bed nor a space on the floor to 
sit, what with your veils and gloves and 
laces spread all over.” She looked about 
her in despair, while Margaret, still more 
despairingly, fumbled about in bureau and 
wardrobe. 

“Why,” she .inswered, “I can’t seem to find 
anything I want, although, as you know, I 
can usually put my hand on my belongings 
in the dark. One of my dresses is gone, a 
hat has disappeared, veils and gloves are 
not to be found, and, worst of all, I have 
looked high and low for a manuscript which 
I simply must have. For some time now I 
have suspected that somebody has been com- 
ing into my rooms and meddling. Every 
once in a while I discover that a bureau 
drawer has had a foreign hand stirring up 
its depths. Certainly several times I have 
found my wardrobe door unfastened, though 
I always keep it securely bolted to prevent 
dust getting in, and I do vow my desk has 
been tampered with.” 

Margaret put her hand to her eyes and 
actually brushed away a tear, much to Car- 
olyn’s amazement. 


“The dress and odds and ends can be re- 
placed, though it’s a shame to lose that last 
frock and hat that Miss O’Callahan nearly 
bankrupted me over, and they’re the stun- 
ningest things in New York, but losing the 
manuscript is enough to send me out of my 
head.” 

The two began putting things back in 
place. “Dear,” said Carolyn, “you must ad- 
mit that if anybody wants to steal from you, 
there is a good opportunity when you and 
Captain Jinks are out together, and then you 
do have such queer people about you. Now, 
that foreign chambermaid, Annette. . . .” 

Margaret threw a newspaper at Carolyn’s 
mouth. 

“Carolyn Blaine, stop that!” she cried 
angrily. “I won’t listen to ,your nasty un- 
charitable suspicions! I’d trust Annette 
with my soul. Can’t you ever forget that 
she once stole a ring and was in prison?” 

“Frankly dear, I cannot!” 

“Then keep your recollection of it to 
yourself, and don’t refer to it again!” re- 
torted Margaret hotly. 

Suddenly she placed a trembling hand on 
her friend’s shoulder, looked softly, loving- 
ly into her eyes, and said with sweetly 
pitying voice — 

“Carolyn, the Kingdom of Heaven is not 
within you, nor will it ever be, until, you 
have become a sister to Annette Demoyne, 
and until you acknowledge that sister- 
hood!” 

“Margaret,” murmured Carolyn tearfully, 
“am I so hard?” 

“Yes; you are hard like a stone, and 
you need crushing to the earth!” 

“Oh, Margaret, I try not to be hard! 
Indeed, only to you do I seem to appear 
so, but I cannot shake off prejudices, and 
in those prejudices I include someone else 
whom you are always befriending, another 
of your proteges.” 

“Who is that?” 

“Helen Morton.” 

“Ah!” said Margaret, and now there was 
a look of half pity, half bitterness, in her 
eyes and round her mouth. “She is dif- 
ferent from Annette. Love has saved An- 
nette, the love that leads to sin, but this 
other woman — well, perhaps she too may 
T)e saved, though as by fire.” 

“Has she repaid you the money you lent 
her?” asked Carolyn. 

“Oh, yes — ^why, Carolyn, I never told you 
I lent her money!” 

“No,” laughed Carolyn, “not until just 
now. I spoke at a venture. What you 
ever saw in that ungrateful little minx to 
excite your interest is more than I can 
guess.” 

“Oh, I saw she was a good mimic, and I 
knew she was always getting stranded, and 
I felt sorry for her. You must admit that 
she has made a success of the part in my 
play.” 

“Yes, after you were yourself out teach- 
ing her how to act!” retorted Carolyn. 

Another knock on the door announced 
Annette. “Yes, Annette, do come in!” ex- 
claimed Margaret. “Be a nice kind girl 
and straighten the bedroom and arrange 
the bureau drawers.” 

“How she does look at you, Margaret. 
She has a dog-like devotion in her eyes 
that seems to say, T would die for you!’ " 

“I believe she would. Also I believe she 


47 


would make anybody else die for me. Her 
loyalty almost frightens me. Her mixture 
of blood is a good combination in some 
ways, in others dangerous. She loves whom 
she loves and hates whom she hates like 
a true Corsican. She loves me and she 
hates Helen Morton. She reminds me of 
Captain Jinks in that, and it seems, too, 
to be a sort of instinct, which she could 
not explain if she tried. Well, I have 
told you that she is to be my maid when 
I am married, and I shall try to train 
her little soul, though as I said, Annette 
is already among the redeemed.” 

Margaret lighted the spirit lamp and 
swung the shining old-fashioned Peruvian 
kettle over it, and soon they were drink- 
ing tea. 

“And oh, Carolyn,” she went on, with 
bright eyes, as ‘she stood, up from filling 
Captain Jinks’ saucer with milk, “I have 
my book, ‘The Brothers,’ nearly finished! 
Just two chapters more, and a bit of re- 
vising here and there. I have tried to 
make it a sort of American Les Miserahl€s,^ 
in regard to circumstantial evidence and 
capital punishment.” 

“Margaret, how will you get such a novel 
published?” asked Carolyn. 

“I seem to feel it must be published!” 
returned Margaret confidently; then jump- 
ing from the serious to the gay, she con- 
tinued, “I’ve taught Captain Jinks a new 
trick. He can dance the Minuet. I play it 
on the piano and he does it with his Roose- 
velt bear. He dances in so sad and steady 
and lordly a manner that it will almost 
kill you to watch him. Just give us the 
music, Carolyn, 'and let me be his part- 
ner.” 

“Minuet, dear, with his own lady!” said 
Margaret, as the dog shook his silky curls 
and bounded to the floor. “Very slow, and 
sad, and tender to his lady, taking her hand 
and bowing!” went on Margaret, looking 
clearly into his brown eyes. 

Captain Jinks bowed his head low to the 
floor, then raised himself on his hind paws, 
and the graceful dance began, while Car- 
olyn, fingering the piano with her back 
turned to the instrument, in order that 
she might watch, looked on with glistening 
eyes. Down went Captain Jinks’ head in 
loving worship of his lady; down bent 
Margaret till her forehead touched his 
cold nose. They separated, approached and 
bowed again, and so entranced were the 
three of them in the beautiful dance of the 
olden time that they did not hear a rap 
on the door, if rap there was, and Mar- 
garet, facing to bow again to her little 
partner, saw a man standing in the room 
with his back against the door. 

She recognized him as a court officer, 
even before he handed her a large legal- 
looking document. She took it in her left 
hand, the hand that was nearest the door 
where stood the man, and as she shook it 
apart, and the full contents of the page 
might be read, she still used but the one 
hand, and the document covered her breast. 
Still reading, as- though in doubt of its 
meaning, her face growing crimson, her 
right hand, which had been resting upon 
Captain Jinks’ head, travelled noiselessly 
under the document to the opening of her 
bodice, whence she drew forth the two 
scraps of paper inscribed with short-hand 
which she had thrust there when Carolyn 


had entered. Down again, without so much 
as a flutter of the thick document, her 
right hand travelled to the dog’s mouth, 
pressing quickly the brown scraps between 
his teeth. Then her hand closed over his 
mouth and one of her fingers pressed 
against his jaws, and she felt the dog’s 
teeth grinding savagely into the paper. 
Still her left hand held the document, her 
eyes were on its contents, as redder and 
redder grew her face. She peered down 
among the written lines as though better 
to understand them. Suddenly she spoke a 
word which to the officer sounded like anj 
exclamation of surprise at their import, 
“Trois!” 

But Captain Jinks, linguist, soldier, and 
gentleman, understood, and down into his 
little stomach went the masticated frag- 
ments of the brown paper. He made no 
noise, no protest, against so unusual a 
diet. 

“Carolyn, will you give Captain Jinks a 
chocolate cream and one of his digestive 
tablets?” Still Margaret kept her right 
hand at her side, her eyes on the docu- 
ment. Like one in a dream, Carolyn, who 
had seen the whole performance, obeyed 
her, and Captain Jinks sprang into a more 
comfortable position and delightedly de- 
voured both the cream and the tablet. 

Even yet, so little time had passed that 
it was scarcely worth noting. Margaret’s 
right hand now took hold of the other side 
of the document, while her face gathered 
still more of carmine hue. 

Now the man at the door spoke. 

“The dog comes too, madam!” he said. 

“Very well!” she answered in a muffled 
voice which seemed to control some great 
emotion. 

Then she thrust the document before 
Carolyn’s eyes, and Carolyn read there a 
warrant for the arrest of Margaret Allison 
fnr the murder of Frances Fennimore Far- 
rington. 

CHAPTER XX 

A PRISONER AT THE TOMBS. 

When she was taken before a police- 
court magistrate, Margaret Allison, ac- 
cused of the murder of Frances Fennimore 
Farrington, waived her right to an immedi- 
ate examination, and to all questions put 
to her answered merely “I have nothing 
to say.” 

She was then committed to the Tombs to 
await trial, and with her went Captain 
Jinks, who, the District Attorney declared, 
was to be one of the most important wit- 
nesses for the prosecution, and must be 
kept where the authorities could look after 
him and produce him at the required time. 

The arrest was made lare in the after- 
noon, and until that time no mention had 
been made in any of the papers of the find- 
ing of the body of Frances Farrington by 
the oysterman the night before. However, 
within an hour after Margaret’s incarcera- 
tion, the streets were thronged with news- 
boys selling, and people buying, the “ex- 
tras” containing the sensational story 
which had been withheld from the public 
for a day through what was doubtless the 
smartest bit of diplomacy ever engineered 
by the District Attorney’s office. 

Margaret, sitting now in the common 
room where the female prisoners at the 
Tombs spent their time when not in their 


cells, was handed a copy of one of the 
extras by a fellow prisoner, and she looked 
at the first page, expecting to see there an 
account of her own arrest. What she saw 
— great headlines announcing the finding of 
the body, with a large photograph of it, 
arrayed in the striped gown in which the 
body was clothed when found — caused an 
involuntary gasp to escape from her lips, 
and for an instant she turned faint, nearly 
falling from her chair. Then she showed 
almost superhuman strength in collecting 
herself. A shadow of irresolution passed 
over her face, then left it, as she stood 
up, the paper in her hand, and seemed to 
be about to speak to one of her compan- 
ions. Then her expression became tense, 
her lips took on a determined firmness, and 
she sat down again and calmly read what 
the paper had to say. 

She partook of the regular prison sup- 
per, went to her cell, and spent the night 
on the lower hard narrow bunk. In the 
morning she took advantage of the shower- 
bath allowed such nrisonera as were ad- 
dicted to cleanliness and ate again the' 
prison meal. 

As for Captain Jinks, he fared more 
sumptuously than his lady, and, although a 
few restrictions were placed upon his lib- 
erty, he really had not great cause for 
complaint. Three times during the day he 
was taken to the kitchen under the care 
of his adored and adoring friend, Jim Riley, 
and fed far beyond what was good for his 
digestion and the sleekness of his coat. 
During the first few days of his imprison- 
ment his conscience struggled violently 
against the superabundance of chocolate 
creams which were given him by the deputy 
warden, in whose office he spent most of 
his time. The deputy warden kept a large 
bag of them on the table, and at such a 
height that the dog had but to stand on his 
hind legs, draw the bag toward him with 
his paw, and push his nose into it to get 
two or three candies at a time. The deputj 
warden delighted in this particular trick. 
He was an old friend of Captain Jinks, 
their acquaintance extending over a period 
of four years. 

Sometimes the deputy warden would take 
Captain Jinks out into the hard paved 
court, where men in striped clothes were 
at work, and would exercise him up and 
down, and then he would walk over to the 
entrance of that part of the prison occupied 
, by the female prisoners. He would tap 
.1 gently on the door or window, and a grey- 
haired, middle-aged woman would come to 
the door, to whom the deputy warden would 
say — 

' “Here, for God’s sake, let her see him 
for a little while, and I’ll have Jim Riley 
come and get him in fifteen minutes or so.” 

The middle-aged woman was Mrs. Sulli- 
van, matron of the female department, and 
the room into which Captain Jinks would 
be ushered was the one in which the pris- 
oners were allowed to see visitors for a 
short time every day during visiting hours, 
Mrs. Sullivan would disappear along the 
passage-way and instantly appear with 
I Captain Jinks’ lady. He would cover her 
with embraces and sit beside her chair, 
and whatever he thought of his or her 
strange quarters, he kept his own counsel, 
as did also his lady. It could not be said 
that Captain Jinks was unhappy. Never 
distinguished prisoner of state was treated 
with more consideration than he. For close 


companions he had his lady, though he saw 
less of her than he desired, the deputy 
warden, Jim Riley, and Mrs. Sullivan, who 
was also an old friend. Many a time when 
Margaret had visited the Tombs she had 
stopped for a half-hour’s chat with the 
matron. Many a refreshing cup of tea had 
been served to her by Mrs. Sullivan, and 
Captain Jinks had danced innumerable 
times in the matron’s presence and re- 
ceived reward in small cakes. 

Now, in the remarkable circumstances 
that had made Margaret a prisoner await- 
ing trial for homicide, Mrs. Sullivan, quite 
bewildered, yet full of faith that Margaret 
was shielding someone who was the real 
criminal, did not forget the old days, 
and, against the rules of the prison, she 
had tried to induce Margaret to accept a 
soft feather pillow in her cell in place of 
the straw one furnished to the prisoners. 
Margaret had refused it, and the only ad- 
vantage she took of Mrs. Sullivan’s kind- 
ness was to beg her to get Captain Jinks 
surreptitiously to her cell at night. Mrs. 
Sullivan did this with the connivance of the 
deputy warden and Jim Riley, and never 
a whine, never a bark nor a snore diu 
Captain Jinks make during the night, as he 
lay on the upper bunk, above the lower 
one where slept his' lady. 

At the Tombs Margaret’s first visitor was 
Carolyn, who, the morning after the ar- 
rest, had given over her school to a sub- 
stitute in order that she might devote her 
whole time to Margaret. 

The meeting of the two friends on the 
first morning at the Tombs was a strange 
one. For several minutes Carolyn said 
nothing, but stood looking into Margaret’s 
face. Finally she said — 

“What does it mean, Margaret?” 

“It seems to mean what you see, dear. 
That I am in prison, accused of murder.” 

“Speak to me, Margaret. Tell me!” 

“Speak to you, tell you!” repeated Mar- 
garet. “You don’t mean that you ask me 
to deny the charge, do you, Carolyn?” 

“How dare you, Margaret!” cried Caro- 
lyn, grabbing her by the shoulders. “You 
could not think I would wish you to deny 
it. I ask you to tell me whom you are 
shielding?” 

“Then, Carolyn, since denial is not nec- 
essary, I need say nothing to you except 
that you are not to be troubled, and that 
you must live by faith.” 

A few days after Carolyn, again with 
Margaret, said — 

“Margaret, you know who killed her; you 
are letting the criminal escape while you 
sit here.” 

“I told you I could not talk to you about 
it,” returned Margaret. 

“If you won’t talk, then I will. I be- 
lieve Sam Blackmore is in some way in- 
volved, and it is my intention to get him 
back to this country.” 

“You can’t do that, Carolyn, except by 
breaking your promise to me to keep the 
secret of my engagement, and I hold you to 
that promise.” 

“Not now!” exclaimed Carolyn, with 
white lips and staring eyes. “Under these 
circumstances I am released from that 
promise.” 

“Now more than ever,” returned Marga- 
ret calmly. “I forbid you to mention even 
my acquaintance with him. I forbid it, 
Carolyn!” 


49 


“Then send for him, Margaret!*' 

“That is what I shall do. I wish to get a 
cablegram to him, but I do not believe you 
can send it for me. Are not your move- 
ments watched?’’ 

“Yes, Margaret. I don’t suppose I do 
anything that is not known to the District 
attorney’s office. Already I am subpoenaed 
as a witness for the prosecution,’’ and 
Carolyn buried her face in her hands. 

“There is but one other person I can 
trust. Carolyn, communicate with the 
tie Dominie and send him here. Tell him 
not to come as if to see me, but as a mere 
visitor interested in prison work and to 
make an opportunity to talk with me a,s 
though by accident. I can manage it 

through him.’’ . , i „ 

“Certainly, I can do that,’’ said Carolyn 
“When you give me work to do, I can do it. 
Faith without work is dead!’’ She smiled 
WQ nlv. 

One day the Little Dominie walked away 
from the Tombs, carrying away a number ol 
words which Margaret had repeated to him 
several times until he had learned them 
by heart. Two days later he went to a 
distant city, and from the cable office there 
sent a message through the waters. He had 
not the slightest idea of what the words 
meant, to whom they went, or 
what could be the result of their 
going. He had but obeyed the instructions 
of the prisoner at the Tombs. When he had 
left her with the list of words which he 
knew was a cablegram in cipher he had 
merely said — 

“Anything else?” 

“Yes, get into the habit of coming oc- 
casionally as a visitor here. Open any 
message that comes to you in reply to 
this, learn the words by heart, and repeat 
them to me. Rise, Sir Knight! Henceforth 
thou art Mercury!” and Margaret gave him 
a smiling adieu. 

So the days went on and Margaret and 
Captain Jinks had been in the Tombs two 
weeks. The great trial was expected to 
open within the coming fortnight, the Dis- 
trict Attorney having announced that in 
her own case, at least. Miss Allison should 
be given no cause to make complaint of 
the “Law’s Delays.” He also announced 
that the case was almost in perfect readi- 
ness when he had made his final coup of 
arresting her, so that there was little to do 
now except to wait for the ending of a 
case now on the calendar. 

Meanwhile the newspapers published col- 
umns of matter purporting to give an ac- 
count of Margaret Allison’s daily life at the 
Tombs. These stories were illustrated with 
pictures depicting her in every possible po- 
sition, though the favorite one was that of 
a melancholy, handsome woman looking be- 
tween the bars of a cell, or sitting disconv 
solately upon the edge of a bunk with her 
head hitting the bunk above. 

The works of noted criminologists were 
searched for descriptions of the prevailing 
shapes in the heads of degenerates and 
murderers, and skilful artists at newspaper 
offices always somehow managed so to dis- 
tort her features that signs of degeneracy 
and tendency to crime should be conspicu- 
ous. Photographs of her, purchased at 
enormous prices from photographers who 
had no right to sell them, were so worked 
over in the art rooms that her old ac- 


quaintances were surprised that they had 
never before noted the peculiar bumps and 
depressions in her head, the protrusions in 
her neck, and the lines in her face that 
bespoke a leaning toward bloodshed. 

Daily on one pretext or another report- 
ers tried to get to her, representing them- 
selves as lawyers, doctors, parsons who 
would pray for her soul, and old friends 
who had come to help her in her need; but 
under every disguise she scented their mis- 
sion, and refused to go into the visitors’ 
room. One newspaper managed to get 
desultory reports of her daily doings by 
having its reporter bribe another prisoner 
to take notes of her, the reporter going ev- 
ery day to see the other prisoner, repre- 
senting himself as a cousin from the west. 
In this way it became known that Mar- 
garet spent much of her time with a large 
paper pad in her lap, with her pencil fly- 
ing rapidly, and it was assumed that she 
was busy writing her life. Also, through 
the agency of the woman prisoner who act- 
ed as deputy news-gatherer in the female 
ward, it became known that Margaret, al- 
though apparently well supplied with mon- 
ey, was not having any special meals served 
by the prison caterer or anything sent in 
front outside; that she ate uncomplainingly 
every morning the prison breakfast of bread 
and coffee: that at dinner she partook of 
the regulation stew, and at supper seemed 
to relish the bread and jam ; that she wore 
always the dark blue camel’s-hair dress 
which she had on when arrested ; and that 
her hair was always beautifully and be- 
comingly dressed, notwithstanding the fact 
that she had no looking-glass. Of course, 
the fact that the matron had so far for- 
gotten her duty as to offer the surreptitious 
loan of a small mirror was not given out, 
for the reason that only Margaret and 
Mrs. Sullivan knew the secret; nor was 
there made public any news of Captain 
Jinks, except that he seemed to live in the 
deputy warden’s office, where he occasion- 
ally was patted by a reporter, though re- 
fusing always to perform a solitary trick 
or be interviewed by the Press. 

To the young woman who daily spied 
upon her Margaret was a bit talkative at 
time, offering to help her over a difficult 
part of crochet work, and speaking to her 
in her native Italian tongue, though the 
girl knew English. To her oft-reiterated 
question, “Did you kill that writing wo- 
man?” Margaret answered with a wan 
smile, “What do you think about it your- 
self?” and when the Italian girl would re- 
ply, “Well, you can’t tell what anybody 
would do till they’re tempted,” Margaret 
would return quietly, “That is what I say, 
too, and what I have always said. I my- 
self never knew what I could do till I was 
tempted.” This reply, given to the news- 
paper reporter, was published as “Mar- 
garet Allison’s Confession of Guilt to a 
Fellow Prisoner in the Tombs.” By a large 
number of newspapers in the United States 
this young woman, who had hitherto borne 
an unblemished reputation, was immediate- 
ly tried, found guilty, and sentenced, in 
accordance with the custom of the land 
where the liberty of the Press has de- 
generated into ribald licence. 

All I ask of the authorities,” Margaret 
remarked one day to the matron, “is a 
speedy trial and quick justice, and as the 
District Attorney is kind enough to promise 


50 


I me that, I am perfectly content.” 

' “And yet you haven’t got so much as a 
lawyer to look after you,” groaned Mrs. 

I Sullivan. 

, “I don’t need one. I know my own case, 

1 and 1 know the law of this State so thor- 
! oughly that 1 can be my own attorney bet- 
; ter than anybody else could possibly be. 

1 Millions for tribute, if necessary, but not 
one penny for defence, as my patriotic 
forefathers used to say, Mrs. Sullivan.” 

Margaret had hoped to bring a smile to 
Mrs. Sullivan’s face, but instead the good 
Irishwoman wiped her eyes with the hem 
of her gingham apron. 

Almost daily Margaret refused offers of 
i counsel. Some of them were high priced, 
some low, while others declared themselves 
; so convinced of her innocence that they of- 
: fered to take up her defence merely for the 
j happiness it would bring them to secure 
1 her acquittal ; and to such she would an- 
i swer, “You might not bring about my ac- 
quittal. I have never said I was innocent.” 

She had given no sign as to what plea 
she would make in court. Not only before, 
but since her incarceration in the Tombs, 
she had answered all questions with ‘T 
have nothing to say.” 

Finally, when she had allowed it to be 
well understood that she had no intention 
of employing counsel of any sort, a young 
lawyer, Harrison Wainright, was appointed 
by the court to look after her interests, 
though she insisted that this was done 
, against her wishes and over her protest. 

She also announced that since the court 
1 had taken what she felt was an unwarrant- 
i ed liberty, she must refuse to consult with 
I Mr. Wainright. She wc uld gi-v 9 him no in* 
i formation whatever; she would neither ask 
I nor take his advice; and she declared that 
I when the trial was opened she intended to 
take advantage of her right to make her 
own defence, make such cross-examination 
of witnesses as she should deem necessary, 
and that she would also go on the witness- 
' stand herself. She was assured that none 
, of these rights would be denied her, but 
' that nevertheless the court would appoint 
Mr. Wainright to see that nothing was 
neglected in the way of securing her every 
right as a citizen of the state, and so that 

E V there might be no miscarriage of justice 
because of any ignorance on her part con- 
cerning the law. 

, At the beginning of the third week of her 
imprisonment Mr. Wainright began mak- 
ing daily visits to her, pleading that she 
take TTiin into her confidence. He was a 
young man, not yet thirty, and as he talk- 
ed with her Margaret felt sure that he was 
i destined to become a lawyer of repute in 
; New York. She felt, too, an uncontrollable 
liking for him personally as well as an ad- 
I miration for his perservering pertinacity 
in visiting her against her will ; and once 
she was startled out of her wonted com- 
! posure when the young attorney jumped 
j suddenly from his chair and, giving a thun- 
j derous pound on a table, cried out — 
i “Mad woman! Whom are you shielding? 
Have you a lover?” 

“If I am shielding some one, how could I 
continue the shielding if I told you?” was 
her calm reply. 

Carolyn continued to visit Margaret every 
day, bringing her such clothes as she need- 
ed. Once Margaret said to her, “Carolyn, 
I charge you to be good to Annette and 


comfort her. Tell her that although she 
must not come to see me, I sent her word 
that she is not to be unhappy and that 
everything will come out all right.” Con- 
scientiously Carolyn delivered the message, 
and then went out on her own account and 
hired a woman detective, installing her in 
the Hotel Illington as chambermaid, with 
instructions to watch Annette and Helen 
Morton, the actress. Then Carolyn called 
on Harrison Wainright. 

Meanwhile two interesting bits of infor- 
mation were given by the newspapers. The 
one was that Miss Allison’s latest comedy, 
in which Helen Morton played the leading 
part, had been taken off the stage by the 
management because of the prejudice of the 
public against the author, and that had this 
not been done in time, it would surely have 
been hissed off, English fashion. Just 
around the corner the great play by Fran- 
ces Fennimore Farrington was drawing 
crowded houses, and it looked as though the 
ill-fated author’s misfortune was proving to 
be the theatrical manager’s fortune. 

The other piece of news was the infor- 
mation that* Mr. James Lloyd, the editor 
of the “Arlington Magazine,” had been left 
with an unfinished serial on his hands by 
Frances Fennimore Farrington. . He con- 
fessed to having been so taken by the won- 
derful plot when the first half of the story 
was submitted to him that, contrary to his 
custom, he had begun to publish before the 
whole of the manuscript was in his hands. 

Inquiry among the many other editors for 
which Miss Farrington had written devel- 
oped the assurance that she had finished 
up all the other work for which she had 
contracted, so that the Arlington serial 
now running and which was attracting wide 
attention, was the only unfinished thing she 
had left behind her. 

When the District Attorney learned this, 
he smiled broadly at one of his assistants, 
remarking, “The plot thickens— that is to 
say, it clears up!” Then he walked over to 
the window, murmuring, “Oh, the game, the 
game !” 

CHAPTER XXI 

FROM THE LAND OF TO-MORROW 

Sam Blackmore, several miles from the 
mining camp in the direction of Guada- 
lupe, stood upon a jut of rock, sweeping 
the horizon with his field-glasses. He was 
looking for signs of Henderson, due from 
the port of Payta, the nearest point whence 
cablegrams could be dispatched or received. 
From Payta on to the mining camp they 
took their chances "with such vessels as 
might touch at Guadalupe, with a land 
journey of indefinite length of time on to 
the camp. Henderson had been instructed 
to wait in Payta in order to receive per- 
sonally a cablegram, which Sam felt must 
surely be there, for Margaret had been in 
the habit of sending one each week in a 
particular cipher which only she and her 
lover understood. 

When Henderson set out for Peyta, it 
had been expected that he would find a 
cablegram awaiting him. Still, Sam rea- 
soned, this could not have been the case, 
for now Henderson was four days late. 

Mail was- irregular, according as it caught 
fast or slow ships after leaving Colon, 
so Sam depended upon the cable for weekly 


51 


news of his fiancee. He was, in the main, 
a man of infinite patience. He could work 
and plod on toward a promised goal, or 
even a possible one, heeding no obstacles at 
right or left, never looking backward, and 
pressing forward always with his nose to 
the very grindstone, if need be. He bore 
with great quietude and calmness what- 
ever necessary delays came in his way. 
With needless waiting, however, he had no 
patience, and it was to avoid all such de- 
lays, both in his business and in the matter 
of hearing from Margaret, that he kept al- 
ways stationed at Payta a representative 
of the mining company to see to the quick 
dispatch of all messages, sending down to 
the representative each week somebody 
from the camp to hasten things. 

This time the messenger had been John 
Henderson, as one whom he could trust, 
and to whom he confided his anxiety about 
Margaret from whom he had not heard in 
two weeks. There was a troubled look in 
Sam’s eyes as he laid down his field-glasses. 
Gloomily and forebodingly he passed his 
hand over his brow, and stepping back gin- 
gerly from the dangerous projection where 
he had stationed himself for what he 
thought would be a better view of any- 
thing approaching camp, he came face to 
face with Henderson himself, who had ar- 
rived at the camp during Blackmore’s ab- 
sence, and had then set out to search for 
him. 

Blackmore stretched forth his hand. “In 
Heaven’s name give it to me, Henderson!’’ 
he said, and Henderson held out an en- 
velope. 

Tearing it open with one hand and drag- 
ging from his pocket a small booklet with 
the other, he sat down to translate the 
message, which was addressed to “Barrier, 
Payta.’’ Swiftly his fingers flew through 
the leaves of his code-book. It was a long 
message. Henderson knew that, by the 
time it took Sam to decipher it. Sam’s 
face had grown tense, and his eyes were 
staring when finally he looked up at Hen- 
derson. 

“My God, Henderson! When does the 
next fast ship leave Payta for Panama ?“ 
he asked. 

“A week from to-day,’’ returned Hender- 
son. 

“Will it connect all right with the mail 
packet boat from Colon?’’ 

“Yes, it must, even if they have to wait 
half a day for it,’’ said Henderson; “but I 
thought we had arranged to take the ‘Atra- 
ta.’ ’’ 

“Can’t wait. We must both of us go at 
once. Read that!’’ and writing out the 
message in proper form, Sam thrust a pa- 
per toward Henderson, who read it, smooth- 
ed it out, re-read it, and said nothing. 

“What can she mean?’’ How is it possible, 
Henderson?’’ asked Sam finally. 

“How it’s possible is more than I know,’’ 
returned Henderson. “What she means to 
do is easy to see. You always knew you 
were not engaged to marry a bread-and- 
butter miss, didn’t you? Heavens! The 
strength of that girl! I’d pit her against 
the Government itself!’’ 

“But do you realize that she’s actually 
at this minute in the Tombs, and that the 
trial will have begun before we can ar- 
rive?’’ askod Sam, laying a trembling hand 
on Henderson’s sihoulder. 

“Yes, but she has plenty of money for 


the comforts she needs, and friends enough . 
if she wants to speak.” 

“But she won’t speak — you know that, 
Henderson,” said Sam with shaking voice, 
“and as for the comforts, she won’t take 
them. I’ll warrant you! And to think that 
twice I’ve torn my heart in shreds and 
patches to leave her in New York be- 
cause I wouldn’t bring her down here 
away from all the comforts of civilization! 
And now I expect she’s eating prison 
fare!” 

“Well, Sam, Margaret’s a magnificently 
healthy woman, and she won’t break down 
either mentally, physically, or morally, 
that’s sure! And as for speaking, why 
we’ve both got tongues, and we can do 
some tall speaking when we get there. 
Come, man, we’d better prepare to start 
for Payta in the morning. It’s only a week 
earlier than you intended anyway.” 

“Yes,” replied Sam, “the quickest way to 
send word to her is for us to get to Payta 
and cable to the Dominie.” 

They were on their way to the camp now, 
and were met by Felipe and his sleek and 
happy white mule. 

“We’re off a week earlier than "we in- 
tended, Felipe,” said Sam calmly, as 
though he only stated a sudden notion in 
a change of plans. “Get out the satchels 
and let me see what’s worth carrying 
away.” 

“Senor go manana?” asked Felipe in 
tearful voice. 

“Manana this time as sure as your born, 
Felipe!” 

“It’s to be calm, and wait for manana, 
when your blood is boiling and your heart 
is thumping like thunder,” observed Sam, 
with a sorry grin to Henderson, as they 
paced up and down smoking, before the 
hut where Felipe was making himself busy 
for the final departure of his beloved Sen- 
or. It was ten minutes ere either of the 
men spoke again. Sam threw away his 
cigar, bared his head, and clutched Hen- 
derson’s sleeve. 

“She says the woman’s body was found 
in the North River, Henderson,” he hurst 
out. “How can it be possible?” 

“Don’t ask me!” replied Henderson. 
“Long ago I learned that there were more 
strange things that could take place In 
this supposedly prosy old world than we 
in our small philosophy ever dreamt of. 
'There’s nothing to do but wait.” 

“Yes, wait,” replied Sam, “but it’s 
mighty hard. The hardest task I ever 
set myself yet.” 

And so they waited. For in the Land" of B 
To-morrow one learns to wait. fl 

•piosl 

CHAPTER XXII 1 

THE CASE OF “THE PEOPLE.” 1 

Just five weeks after her arrest the trial 
of Margaret Allison for the murder of ' 
Frances Fennimore Farrington was begun 
in Part I of the Criminal Branch of the 
Supreme Court. Certainly, as the District 
Attorney had remarked, she could have no 
cause for complaint concerning the “Law’s 
delays,” to which she had so often bitterly 
referred in her writings, when it came to ( 
the matter of the speedy trial which “she 1 
had demanded for herself. 

^ The District Attorney did not give over , I 
this particular case to any of his assis- ^ 
tants. He had decided to conduct it in per- a 




son, with the help of two of his most 
promising underlings. As Margaret enter- 
ed the court-room and glanced into the 
railed-off enclosure where sat the attor- 
neys for “the People,” the first sensa- 
tion of which she was conscious was one of 
regret that the faces of these two young 
men, whom she had often seen conducting 
the case of the prosecution in other trials, 
appeared to be growing daily more set and’ 
hard and like unto that of their chief. 
She saw sarcasm, cynicism, and suspicion 
stamped upon them, as well as the be- 
ginnings of that S'neer which could never 
wear off. 

Her face appeared just the slightest bit 
drawn, and the sadness of her eyes seem- 
ed to have deepened during her imprison- 
ment; but she looked a woman whose 
nerves and emotions were well under con- 
trol as she walked along the aisle and took 
I her seat at the head of the counsel-table, 
j with Harrison Wainwright at her left. She 
i wore a simple little toque hat with some 
pink moss-rosebuds artistically arranged 
at the side. Her dress, whatever it might 
be, was entirely hidden by a smart, black 
silk coat which fell to her feet and her 
coat collar was ornamented with quaint de- 
signs of velvet, fitting closely about her 
neck. 

For an instant her gaze swept in front 
of her and at the sides, with an almost 
imperceptible pause over the long tables 
of newspaper reporters, and at the en- 
closure slightly ahead and to her left, 
where sat the special writers, who were 
engaged at enormous space rates to write 
their “impressions” of what promised to 
be the greatest murder trial New York had 
ever known. In this enclosure there were sev- 
eral women with whom she was personally 
I acquainted. Some of them had been her 
guests at receptions and tea-parties, as 
well as having been her interviewers dur- 
; ing the past few years since her wonder- 
fully successful career as novelist and 
playwright had made her a personality of 
great interest to newspaper readers. 

! Her eyes wandered on to the Judge, a 
large man of kindly eyes under beetling 
brows, a judge upon whom she had always 
^looked as. a man of mercv, as well as one 
of extraordinary understanding. She had 
never m^t him personally, but she had 
; heard from many sources that he was an 
1 admirer of her work, and that he had most 
I particularly commended her various 
sketches of the courts for their lifelikeness, 
that he had, indeed, more than once quoted 
some of her lesral bons mots with a keen 
en.tovment of their humour. 

From studying his face, her eyes rose to 
the nalnting directlv over his head, that of 
“Justice.” which she had always designat- 
ed as “The Lady of the Scales.” On the 
left of this nicture she noted the panel of 
“The Three Fates,” and on its right, that 
of the figures representing Liberty, Fra- 
ternity. and Equality. 

She was recalled from her gaze-wander- 
ing bv a touch on the arm from Harrison 
Walnright. It had been arranged between 
them that in the first instance she was to 
make her own plea, though she had not told 
him what it would be. He was to choose 
the jury according to his own whims, un- 
less she should otherwise direct concerning 
some particular talesman; he might cross- 
examine in cases where she did not forbid 


him to do so, and he might, if he desired, 
make the opening address to the jury 
when the case of The People should be 
complete. As for witnesses in her own be- 
half, she haci declared that none were need- 
ed except herself, and so had refused to 
give him names of any he might call, but 
she had consented to his request that he be 
allowed to put a doctor on the stand, a 
friend of his own who had volunteered, 
free of charge, to come to his assistance in 
what he considered a very important medi- 
cal matter. What that important matter 
was she did not ask him. 

At Wainright’s touch she knew she must 
now listen to the moving of the case of The 
People of the State of New York against 
Margaret Allison, who was accused of hav- 
ing, on tn«5 morning or February 15th, 
lured from a cab at Pier 48 one Prances 
Pennimore Farrington to Pier 56^, sud- 
denly taking her unawares, and drowning 
her by pushing her from the edge of the 
quay into the water. She rose and stood 
before the court when the Clerk said, 
“Margaret Allison, you have been indicted 
for murder in the first degree of one 
Frances Pennimore Farrington. Do you 
demand a trial? Are you guilty or not 
guilty?” 

In a clear voice she answered— 

“NOT GUILTY!” 

For just an instant she fixed her eyes on 
those of the District Attorney, then she sat 
down, and the work of choosing the jury 
began. During the first two hours of the 
examination of talesmen several challenges 
on each side were used up in the matter 
of the prospective jurymen’s attitude to- 
ward dogs. A dozen talesmen, by their 
answers to the remarkable questions put to 
them, gladly suffered themselves to appear 
as fools in almost every respect, in ac- 
cordance with the requirements of the strict 
impartial it> demanded by our laws, thus 
showing themselves qualified to sit in 
judgment on a most important case. Then 
would come the question “Are you fond of 
dogs?” If the answer was in the affirma- 
tive, the District Attorney challenged in 
behalf of The People, on the ground that 
the juryman would not be able to render 
an unprejudiced verdict in a case where a 
dog must be brought in as a witness and 
might appeal to his sympathies. If the 
answer was in the negative. Harrison 
Wainright objected to and challenged the 
non-dog .lover as one who would surely be 
prejudiced against his client. Finally, at 
the beginning of the afternoon session, the 
Court interposed, forbidding that any 
talesman should be questioned on the sub- 
ject of his feelings toward the canine race. 
Then the task of filling the jury-box pro- 
ceeded apace, and at five o’clock, when 
Court adjourned, nine of the seats were 
filled. 

The next morning when the talesman who 
should, if chosen, make the tenth juror 
went on the stand for examination, repeat- 
ing most carefully his name, Martin Ells- 
worth Cummings, it was noticed that the 
defendant’s interest seemed suddenly to 
awaken, as well it might. This man she 
did not know, and he told the truth when 
he said that he was not an acquaintance of 
the prisoner nor of her counsel, had never 
had business relations with her, and knew 


53 


neither the District Attorney nor anybody 
in his office. 

“Mr. Cummings,” said the District Attor- 
ney, “are you conscientiously opposed to 
capital punishment, or have you any relig- 
ious scruples which would interfere with 
your rendering a verdict of murder in the 
first degree?” 

Margaret looked in curious manner at 
the talesman. This Martin Ellsworth Cum- 
mings, who had never before seen her or 
spoken to her, had written her many let- 
ters telling her of his admiration of her 
work; and, having read some of her little 
court stories and discovering her to be an 
opponent of capital punishment, had com- 
mended her attitude, assuring her that his 
heart was with her. Indeed, it was he who 
had first suggested to her that she was 
capable of writing a great book in the form 
of a ^novel that might help to wipe away 
the stain of blood shed coolly by the state 
in punishment for that shed hotly by the 
murderer. 

He had sat there waiting for this impor- 
tant question by the District Attorney then 
quickly answered, “I have not!” 

Instantly she knew what it meant. This 
man was determined to be on the jury that 
should try her for her life, in order that 
he might bring about a disagreement in 
case the other eleven should adjudge her 
guilty. 

The qucslioniug of Mr. Cummings went 
on. Neither Wainright nor the District At. 
torney could find any fault in him. Mar- 
garet heard him sworn, and saw him take 
the tenth chair in a box to her right. 

The two additional jurors were quickly 
chosen. One was a merchant, the other a 
manufacturer. In spite of their assevera- 
tions to the contrary, the twelve made an 
intelligent, fair-minded, kindly-looking set 
of men. They represented many callings, 
but none were publishers or editors or 
playwrights. Gentlemen who belonged to 
these professions were excused by consent 
of both sides for fear of prejudice of mind 
either for or against the defendant. 

The jury chosen, the court adjourned for 
luncheon, and at two o’clock the District 
Attorney rose preparatory to opening the 
case for “The People.” Harrison Wain- 
right was all attention, note book and 
pencil in hand, his earnest young face 
alight and eager. For a lawyer whose client 
refused to give him any information about 
her case he appeared particularly buoyant 
and confident. Now, at least, he knew that 
she pleaded “not guilty.” He had that to 
go on, and he also felt that he had some 
other things to “go on” which he had no 
notion of explaining, even to her. This was 
his first big case — what matter that it came 
through being appointed by the court and 
that the fee to be paid by the state was not 
enormous? Here was his first chance to 
distinguish himself, and he determined that, 
through a watchfulness of the District At- 
torney’s tactics, he would try to make that 
gentleman sit up. He almost forgot his 
anger against Margaret, in his gratitude 
that at the last minute she had consented 
to allow him to cross-examine instead of 
doing it herself. 

As for the defendant, she sat at her table 
with eyes and cheeks aglow with such ex- 
citement as one might exhibit at the play- 
house waiting for the curtain to rise on a 
performance which promised to be more 


than ordinarily interesting. She sat hac 
in her chair, and then, as though moved by 
a sudden thought for the comfort of those 
behind her, and desirous that they might 
see to the best possible advantage, she 
quietly pulled the pins from her small hat 
and placed it in front of her, straightened 
her shoulders back again, and lifted her 
face. 

“May it please your Honour and Gentle- 
men of the Jury,” began the District Attor- 
ney, bowing first in front to the Judge and 
then to his right, where sat the Twelve. 
“This is a case builded entirely upon Cir- 
cumstantial Evidence. I say to you in the 
very beginnihg that no person, in so far as 
is known, saw the defendant kill the de- 
ceased!” 

Here Margaret’s hand passed unsteadily 
over her eyes, then she looked calmly 
ahead. 

“I say it is a xase of Circumstantial Evi- 
dence. I say it is a chain with link after 
link .^fitting perfectly into the preceding 
link, so that in the end I am able to hold 
up before your eyes a perfect chain with- 
out one link, or so much as a part of a 
link, missing. 

“Although this case has been brought to 
trial in a remarkably short time after the 
arrest of this defendant, think not. Gen- 
tlemen of the Jury, that the cause of The 
People has been prepared in that short 
time. Within a few days after the sus- 
picious disappearance of Frances Fenni- 
more Farrington, and long before it was 
know'n that she was truly dead, certain re- 
markable circumstances were brought to 
my attention which made me feel sure that 
this defendant was concerned in her disap- 
pearance, and I began at once to investi- 
gate and get the links of my chain together. 

“I am prepared to bring before you a 
history 'of the whole life of this defendant 
since she was a schoolgirl. I am prepared 
to show you what sort of a child she was; 
what kind of student at the boarding school 
which she attended; what were her opin- 
ions at that time; what were her very 
earliest writings. I am prepared to show 
you that from her earliest years she chose 
for her associates the base, the dishonest, 
the criminal classes. I am prepared to 
show you that she took such persons for 
her intimates in preference to the good and 
the true; I am prepared to show you that 
the womanly woman and the manly man 
were almost entirely neglected by her when 
she had an opportunity to make friends 
with thieves, forgers, adulterers, and mur- 
derers. I will show you that in so far as 
we are able to discover the highest affec- 
tion of which she is capable has been ex- 
pended upon a poodle-dog. and that even at 
the solemn moment of her arrest her first 
thought was that he needed to be given a 
chocolate cream and a digestive tablet! 
Gentlemen of the Jury, let us suppose for 
one instant that she was innocent of the 
terrible charge against her, what character 
does such action show, such utter disregard 
of the seriousness of the crime which had 
been imputed to her! Why, Gentlemen of 
the Jury, even this poodle-dog of hers is a 
criminal— trained in the science of pocket- 
picking, by which she has derived enter- 
tainment and I will not say profit!” 

Harrison Wainright jumped to his feet. 
“Your Honour, I object to this style of 
oratory — I demand ” 


54 


The defendent touched him on the shoul- 
der and whispered to him, whereupon the 
young lawyer rose again, saying calmly — 
“Your Honour, 1 will withdraw the ob- 
jection. Let the learned District Attorney 
go on. ‘The play’s the thing!’ ’’ 

The District Attorney turned blandly and 
curtsied to Counsel for Defence, and then 
proceeded. 

“I shall prove to you, Gentlemen of the 
Jury, by more than one witness, that this 
defendant, envious of the name and the 
success which her rival had attained in this 
city and this country, gnashed her teeth in 
jealousy against her. I shall prove to you 
that while all the city and all the country 
sang the praises of the gifted woman who 
met her death so tragically and so horribly 
only one voice was silent, and that voice 
was the voice of this defendant. While 
others spoke of the genius of this woman 
from a foreign land who came to make her 
home among us, this defendant was never 
known to say anything of good or encourage- 
ment, greeting alway.s the name of Frances 
Fennimore Farrington with a sardonic 
sneer 

“And why, Gentlemen of the Jury? Let 
me tell you why. Less than two years ago 
this defendant was considered the leading 
humourous writer in the city of New York. 
Her articles, her stories, her books, her 
plays, were much sought after, and she en- 
joyed an immense income from her work. In 
her own particular line of work she was 
supposed to stand alone, and in her own 
field she recognized no rivals. It is not for 
me to say. Gentlemen of the Jury, that much 
of her success was on account of the name 
she had won, rather than on account of the 
merit of all her work! Let that pa^s — but, 
as I said, she stood alone, removed, as she 
supposed, from competition. 

“But competition came. It came from 
over the sea, from that motherland of our 
American literature, England. Such won- 
derful stories of comedy appeared, signed 
by another name than that of Margaret Al- 
lison, as made this defendant start with 
amazement, then tremble with fury. These 
stories from the pen of the gifted English- 
woman were so far above those with which 
the public had been supplied that immedi- 
ately the work of this defendant became 
‘As moonlight unto sunlight 
And as water unto wine!’ 

“It was then that the income of this de- 
fendant began to decrease. It was then that 
she began to plan the awful details for the 
disappearance of her rival. And such plans 
as she made. Gentlemen of the Jury, I shall 
unfold to you by the cloud of witnesses I 
shall bring against her. With this woman 
from another land, this genius who had 
supplanted her, out of the way, she believed 
that she would again gain her old place and 
her former hold upon the public. How she 
planned this, and how she accomplished this, 
I shall prove to you upon the testimony of 
reliable witnesses. And while I am proving 
the crime of murder against her, I shall of 
necessity prove other crimes against her 
which in themselves would send her to 

prison for a term of years ’’ 

“I object, yourHonour ! ” shouted Harrison 
Wainright.’ “This defendant is on trial 
for one offence which the District Attorney 
has not proven, and yet he now accuses her 
of other crimes ” 


Again the eager young counsel was inter- 
rupted by his client, and once again, as be- 
fore, he withdrew his objection, and begged 
his Honour to “let the play proceed.’’ 

“Gentlemen of the Jury,’’ went on the Dis- 
trict Attorney, “I will not prolong this ad- 
dress, except to remind you that this crime 
is all the more atrocious because of the 
helpless character of its victim, in that she 
was a stranger in a strange land, come here 
to seek our hospitality, while offering us in 
return the great gifts which the gods had 
bestowed upon her. What she was, we know 
not. Whether by birth she was a princess 
or a peasant, she was entitled to the protec- 
tion of the law. Friendless she appeared 
to be in many respects. An air of mystery 
surrounded her life. She had few visitors, 
she appeared to know few people, and her 
great desire seemed to be to keep to her- 
self. Was she a woman of noble birth seek- 
ing happiness in another land and under a 
name that was not hers? Ah, Gentlemen, 
who shall say ’’ 

Here the learned District Attorney broke 
down. The tears were rolling down his 
cheeks, and he drew forth a pocket-hand- 
kerchief to wipe his glasses. Then he went 
on : — 

“Gentlemen of the Jury, we do not know 
all that we might wish, although, indeed, 
this defendant at the bar might, I am con- 
vinced, tell us something about the rank 
of her victim if she wished. But this I 
know. Gentlemen of the Jury, that the de- 
ceased Frances P'ennimore Farrington came 
to us from another land and lived among 
us and died among us — died by the hand of 
this defendant, against whom, at the end of 
this trial, I shall ask you for a verdict of 
Murder in the First Degree.’’ 

Thf- coiiit-riiom v/as full of emotion that 
needed to vent Hoelf in an outburst of 
something, and since cheers and applause 
were forbidden, the outburst took the form 
of tears. Only the Judge and Harrison 
Wainright sat unperturbed. As for the 
defendant herself, she seemed to be using 
her handkerchief quite freely, and there 
were times during the address when she put 
her hea.d on the ta.ble and iier shoulders 
slightly shook as though from half -sup- 
pressed sobs. The reporters round about 
her immediately sent messages to their va- 
rious evening papers that she had shown 
deep feeling during the moving address of 
the District Attorney. 

It was not yet four o’clock when the first 
witness for The People was called. He was 
the officer who made the arrest. After the 
preliminary questions, he was asked to de- 
scribe what took place on the afternoon 
when he arrested the defendant. 

“She was dancing with her dog in the mid- 
dle of the room, and the other lady was 
playing the piano, when I handed her the 

warrant.’’ . . . 

“What was her manner of receiving it: 

“She got very red in the face, sir, and 
when she had spent about a minute in read- 
ing it over she suddenly made an exclama- 
tion which sounded like ‘Ah!’ or What! 
as near as I could make it out. 

“Then what happened?” 

“She looked up from the warrant and said 
to the other lady, who had been staring at 
her if her eyes would come out, ‘Carolyn, 
wUl you give Captain Jinks a chocolate 
cream, and one of his digestive tablets? 
The other lady gave the things to the dog, 


55 


and then I said, ‘The dog comes, too!’ and 
she said ‘Very well!’ Then she showed the 
paper to her friend — just held it before her 
face — and as I saw she was going to speak 
again, I warned her that whatever she said, 
would be used in evidence against her. Re- 
gardless of my warning, she said to the 
other lady, ‘Now, Carolyn, you are not to be 
frightened, remember that, for I do assure 
you they will have something of a time 
proving it!’ ” 

“She did not, you are sure, say to her 
friend that she did not commit the crime 
with which she was charged?’’ questioned 
the District Attorney, looking pointedly at 
the jury. 

“No, sir ; she only said they’d have some- 
thing of a time proving it.’’ 

“Crcss-examine!” said the Districts Attor- 
ney suddenly and triumphantly, turning to 
Counsel for Defence. 

“Mr. Officer,” said Harrison Wainright 
quietly, “did you say that this defendant 
turned pale with fright when you arrested 
her?” 

“No, sir; I said she got very red in the 
face.” 

“With fright?” continued Wainright. 

“Well, I suppose it was with fright; yes, 
sir.” 

“Have you arrested other persons on the 
charge of murder — quite a number of other 
persons?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Did they all turn red in the face with 
fright?” 

“No, sir.” 

“Did any of them turn red in the face 
with fright?” 

“I remember one man that did. and he 
fell down in a fit and frothed at the 
mouth.” 

“Did this defendant fall down in a fit 
and froth at the mouth?” 

“No, sir.” 

“She only got red in the face with fright?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

Here Wainright paused and made a note 
on his paper pad ; then continuing, he 
asked — 

“Did the defendant make other remarks 
than those you have just told the District 
Attorney?” 

“No, sir, that is ” 

■ “Oh, she did make some other remark, did 
she?’ 

“Nothing of importance, sir!” and here the 
witness grew red and looked embarrassed. 

“Please repeat that other remark, Mr. 
Officer!” commanded Wainright. 

“You couldn’t call it a remark, sir,” said 
the officer, looking appealingly at the Dis- 
trict Attorney. 

At first Wainright had not the slightest 
idea that there had been any other remark. 
H^ had put his question almost aimlessly, 
but now he was convinced that something 
important was being held back, and that by 
the District Attorney’s suggestion. 

“Repeat that other very important remark 
that this defendant mad^/ when you arrested 
her!” shouted Wainright, springing lightly 
through the gate of the enclosure and hurl- 
ing his fist upon the District Attorney’s 
table with such force that he almost broke 
his knuckles. 

The face of the witness grew scarlet as 
he tried to catch the eye of the District 
Attorney. That gentleman, however, had 
turned his back, and was twirling a pencil 

56 


in his hand. 

“Well, sir,” admitted the witness, seeing 
no way out of it, “as 1 said, you couldn’t 
call it a remark, because she sort of sang 
it. While she was putting on her hat the 
defendant said very low and sort of tune- 
like, ‘How doth the busy little Bee!’” 

Harrison Wainright was disappointed at 
the comparative unimportance of the “re- 
mark,” but he smiled nevertheless. So did 
everybody, except the District Attorney, who 
had rather hoped that the jury would not 
be reminded of one , of the defendant’s most 
witty articles entitled “The Legal Beehive,” 
in which he himself had figured as “The 
Busiest Bee of All.” 


CHAPTER XXIII 


A CLOUD OF WITNESSES 


The first witness for The People on the 
second day of the trial was Mrs. Herbert. 
Red and tearful, she puffed into the court- 
room from the witness-room, took the oath 
with great solemnity, insisted upon loudly 
kissing “the Book,” then curtsying to the 
Judge, who 'She addressed as “your Lord- 
ship.” This caused a slight titter among 
those who were assembled about her, which 
did not in the least disturb Mrs. Herbert. 

Nor was she abashed, though she did turn 
slightly angry, at the stupidity of the Clerk, 
the stenographer, and the crier, when they 
showed much difficulty in understanding 
and pronouncing her name 

“It is ’Erbert. your Lordship!” she said 
firmly but respectfully. 

“E-r-b-e-r-t !” sang out the stenographer. 

“No, your Lordship, the gentleman is 
wrong in his spelling, basking ’is pardon. 
Hit does not begin with he, but with 
flaitch !” 

“Spell it for him, madam,” directed the 
Court. ' 


“Haitch, hee, har, bee, hee, har, tee!”....in- 
structed Mrs. Herbert slowly; then, quickly, 
fluently, “’Erbert!” 

The District Attorney turned his face to 
look out of a window, his assistants coughed, 
Harrison Wainright’s eyes met those . of 



he pounded into the v» ry face of the grin- 
ning stenographer, and the taking of testi- 
mony began. 

Mrs. Herbert’s testimony, punctuated with 
sighs and moans of her own and helpful 
hints from the District Attorney, was about 
what she had told in her sworn statement. 
After describing how the deceased came to 
apply for lodgings, how long she remained, 
how she worked, and other details, she was 
asked to describe how the deceased was 
dressed when she bade her good-bye. Most 
minutely she described the striped gown, 
the small black hat, and the tight-fitting 
black coat worn by Miss Farrington on the 
evening of her departure. 

“Would you know that dress, that hat, 
and that coat if you saw them again?” 
asked the District Attorney. 

“Yes, sir.” 

Here the District Attorney directed the 
opening of a large parcel, which was drawn 
from under a table. Carefully he took 
from it a skirt and bodice of black and 
white stripes, somewhat shrunken and faded 
and run together in colour, yet bearig wit- 
ness to its original costliness of material 
and make. It was silk-lined, the dust- 
ruffie being considerably torn. He spread 


this garment upon the table, then took out 
a long black tailor-made coat, also silk- 
lined, and hung it over a chair, topping it 
with a black velvet turban, trimmed with 
ostrich feathers, giving evidence of much 
water-soaking. 

“Have you ever seen these clothes be- 
fore, Mrs. Herbert?” he asked. 

“Will you please let me have them in my 
lap, sir, to make a surety sure, sir?” asked 
the witness. They were handed to her. She 
took them close to her eyes and smoothed 
them reverently. As she did this, Harri- 
son Wainright watched her as though 
fascinated, and across the face of the de- 
fendant there flitted a look of pained sur- 
prise tinged with amusement. 

“Yes, sir!” finally answered the witness. 
“I take my solemn hoath these were 'er 
own dear ladyship’s clothes.” 

“Ladyship!” repeated Harrison Wain- 
right excitedly. 

“The eminent young Counsel for Defence 
may have this witness when I have fin- 
ished with her!” cried the District Attor- 
ney. “He may, indeed, have her as soon as 
she has done a little more identifying.” 

“I thank the distinguished District Attor- 
ney!” answered young Wainright, rising 
and bowing low. 

Swiftly the District Attorney turned to 
another parcel and unfastened it. Its con- 
tents were soiled, water-soaked under- 
wear. 

“Did you ever see the underclothing worn 
by your former lodger, Mrs. Herbert? Per- 
haps, when she had it ready for the laun- 
dry?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Was it like that which you hold in your 
hands?” 

“Yes, sir,” sobbed Mrs. Herbert, taking 
the garments very close to her eyes, and 
then rocking herself from side to side in 
the witness chair. “ ’Er ladyship’s clothes' 
was that fine and simple, and ’andmade, 
which showed ’er to belong to the quality, 
as T often says to ’Arriet!” 

“You have told of a lady in brown who 
called on your lodger on the night that 
she left you. Mrs. Herbert. Could you 
identify the clothes she wore, do you 
think?” 

“I wouldn’t like to be sure of that, sir. 
It were night, sir, and she honly flashed 
into the door quicklike, but it were all in 
brown she were, sir, ’er face was turned 
•from me, sir, but oh the noise ’er gown do 
make, sir!” 

“Like this?” asked the District Attorney, 
springing tiger-like^ toward a heap of brown 
on the floor, and shaking a silk-lined gown 
in the astonished face of Mrs. Herbert. 

“Yes, sir, certainly, sir, and I should say 
that were surely the dress, sir!” 

“You say that the lady wore a heavy 
veil and also that her face was turned from 
you. so that you could not possibly identi- 
fy her?” 

“No, sir, I don’t know hat hall what she 
looked like.” 

“Cross-examine!” said the District At- 
torney, turning to Harrison Wainright. 

Wainright walked directly to the railing 
near the District Attorney, and holding up 
a large flat ruler in his hand, asked smil- 
ingly— 

“Mrs. Herbert, do you see this lead-pen- 
cil I am holding?” 


“Oh yes, sir!” answered Mrs. Herbert, 
beaming. 

“That is all, Mrs. Herbert, thank you!” 
he answered, still smiling, and took his 
seat beside the defendant, then fixed his 
eyes steadily on the faces of the jurymen. 

The oysterman who had found the body at 
Pier No. 56V^, followed Mrs. Herbert upon 
the witness stand. His testimony was like 
unto his statement given weeks before to 
the District Attorney. Harrison Wainright 
made no cross-examination, having no 
questions to ask. In his- ability to keep 
sitill when he had no'thing to say, and to 
ask only- such questions as had point and 
meaning, this young stripling of the law 
was beginning to show himself no insigni- 
ficant adversary for even the District At- 
torney with his long years of wide expe- 
rience. Already he had masttered the most 
important point in the art of cross-exami- 
nation. Hampered as probably never be- 
fore was a lawyer hampered, with a client 
w'ho refused to help him, he sat beside her 
smiling and on the watch for every strong 
spot, as well as every weak one, in the 
enemy’s armour. 

The Coroner’s physician was next put on 
the stand to describe thoroughly the exam- 
ination he had made of the body and its 
results. He declared that he believed it 
to have been in the water about five weeks, 
and that the age of the woman was some- 
where between twenty-five and thirty-one 
or thirty-two. 

“Doctor,” asked Wainright, in cross-ex- 
amination, “do you know what was the age 
of Miss Farrington?” 

“Not exactly.” 

“But about, I mean,” pursued Wainright. 

“I understood that she was between twen- 
ty-five and thirty.” 

“Who told you that?” 

“I read it in the newspapers, and was 
also informed by the authorities.” 

“Did you also read in the newspapers the 
date of her disappearance?” 

“I did.” 

“What did you say was the colour of the 
eyes of the body which you examined at 
the Morgue?” 

“A light hazel.” 

“That iS' all,” said Wainright. 

Next came Hillary Angell, portrait paint- 
er to the ladies. Under the skilful handling 
of the District Attorney he told that he 
had long been acquainted with the defend- 
ant, and that he had, during the past year, 
always noted the jealousy which she show- 
ed whenever the name of Frances Farring- 
ton was mentioned. She alone, of all the 
literary set in which he mingled, had never 
a good word to say for the gifted English- 
woman. He went particularly into her de- 
meanour at the garden party given at the 
country home of Mrs. Gregory-Mil'ls, when 
Miss Allison had asked for a description of 
the personal attractions of the deceased, 
saying that, of course, in the matter of 
her literary gifts, she would not attempt 
to set herself up against the verdict of 
the great critics but that she particularly 
desired to know if Miss Farrington had 
long teeth and wore a visible invisible net. 
He also described how the defendant and 
Mr. James Lloyd had stood apart from the 
rest and’ had appeared to be in a heated 
controversy, which he believed had to do 
with certain attentions which Mr. Lloyd 
was paying to Miss Farrington, in a pro- 


57 


I 


fessional, and, possibly, a personal way. 
Asked to identify Margaret Allison in the 
court-room, Mr. Angell pointed a well-man- 
icured forefinger towards the defendant. 

“Now, Mr. Angell,” said the District At- 
torney with an air of great impontance, 
“tell precisely what happened on February 
7, when you went to call at the house where 
Miss Farrington lodged.” 

“On the afternoon of February 7th, be- 
tween four and five o’clock, I decided to 
go to make a call upon Miss Farrington, 
and just as I got in front of the house 
where she lived I saw’ the front door open 
and Miss Margaret Allison come out of the 
house. She had her French poodle-dog with 
her. She seemed rather taken aback at 
meeting me. After saying good afternoon 
to her, I sa’d, ‘So you have made the ac- 
quaintance of Miss Farrington, finally, have 
you?’ and she replied, ‘I think I may say 
now that I know her!’ Remembering all 
the questions Miss Allison had asked about 
the English lady, I said jestingly, ‘And 
how’ do you like her looks?’ She replied, 
with a rather sarcastic smile on her face, 
‘Really, Mr. Angell, I would rather not 
give an opinion on the subject of the lady’s 
personal appearance. I might not do her 
justice.’ At that she tried to hurry away, 
and as I had another question to ask her, 

I turned away from the house and walked 
a few steps, though she was walking so 
fast I had great difficulty in keeping up 
with her.” 

Here Mr. Angell paused, leaned back in 
the w’itness chair as though desirous of a 
rest. The District Attorney waited a few 
seconds, and then asked — 

“What next did you say to Miss Allison?” 
“I said to her, ‘Did you see Miss Far- 
rington this afternoon?’ and she answered, 
‘Oh, yes!’ Then I said, ‘Then she is at home 
this afternoon, is she?’ Miss Allison an- 
swered, ‘Well, Mr. Angell, she was there 
when I was there!’ ” 

The District Attorney indicating that he 
had no further questions to ask the wit- 
ness. Counsel for Defence rose to cross- 
examine, and it was noted that Mr. Angell 
fidgeted a bit as he faced Harrison Wain- 
right. 

“Mr. Angell, did you go back, after you 
left Miss Allison that afternoon, and call 
on Miss Farrington?” 

“I went back and inquired for her, yes.” 
“Did you see her?” 

“No.” - 
“Why not?” 

“The woman who came to the door said 
Miss Farrington was out, and I knew Miss 
Allison could not have told the truth w’hen 
she said she was in.” 

“Could not Miss Farrington have been in 
her apartments and have given instruc- 
tions that she was out to other callers?” 

“Yes : but that w’as not the case on that 
particular afternoon.” 

“How’ do you know that?” 

“Because I went over in Washington 
Park and watched the house, and an hour 
afterwards I distinctly saw Miss Farring- 
ton go into the house.” 

“It must have been dark by that time. 

How is it you could be sure? Did you see 
her face distinctly?” 

“I saw her back, and I knew it w’as 
she.” 

“You mean to say you knew' her so well 


that you could identify her by her back?” t 
“I identified her by her clothes as well. j 
She had a peculiar style of dress. Every- ^ 
thing seemed to be striped.” i 

' “How did you know that?” 

“Well,” returned the witness, swallowing 

tremulously, “you see ” 

“No, I don’t see at all!” snapped Wain- 
right. “I never said I saw! It was you 

w’ho had been seeing!” Then suddenly i 

“When did Miss Farrington last sit to 
you in your studio?” 

“She did not come to my studio to sit,” ' 
answered the witness lamely. 

“Well, where was it you met so you 
could paint her portrait?” 

The District Attorney here interposed. “I 
object, your Honour, that this witness is t 
not being properly cross-examined. There 
w’as no mention of a portrait in my ex- 
amination.” 

“Objection sustained,” said the court, 
and the artist looked a bit more comforta- 
ble. 

“Did you paint a portrait of Miss Far- 
rington?” asked Wainright. 

“Object!” shouted the District Attorney. 
“Objection over-ruled!” nodded the court, 
and Harrison Wainright smiled grimly. , 

“Your Honour.” said the District At- ;[ 
torney, “I do protest that Counsel for De- 
fence is not cross-examining, but exam- 
ining this witness.” 

“Your objection was over-ruled!” said 
the court, and down came the gavel, while 
the witness got a nod which meant that i 
he was to answer the question. 

“I was going to paint Miss Farrington’s 
portrait, but she disappeared!” stammered 
Mr. Angell. ' , 

“Did you not tell a number of persons at | 
a party given by a Mrs. Gregory-Mills that 
you were painting Miss Farrington’s por- 
trait?” asked Wainright. The unfortunate 
witness sat red and trembling, as the young 
lawyer strode toward him. 

“Mr. Angell, answer my question!” 

“I may have said that,” admitted the 
witness. .“You see, I expected to paint her 
and she disappeared.” 

“Did you ever see Miss Farrington, face 
to face, and ask her to allow you to paint 
her portrait?” continued Wainright mer- 
cilessly. 

“I wrote to her and asked her.” 

“You did not ask her personally?” 

“No.” 

“What did she say in reply to your re- 
quest?” 

“I should like to explain,” began the poor 
young man, appealing to the court, but the 
court was not looking. 

“I don’t want to know what you would 
like to explain,” cried Harrison Wain- 
right.. “Did Miss Farrington answer your 
letter at all?” 

“No!” said the witness, now thoroughly 
broken in spirit. 

“Did you ever in your life see Miss Far- 
rington, except at the back, as you say, 
and did you ever speak to her in your 
life?” 

“No.” 

“Finished!” laughed Wainright, and he 
turned triumphantly to his client, who 
wondered how he had become possessed of 
so much knowledge or suspicion. 

,Next came the cabman, Anthony Weir. 
He deposed to having gone to Washing- 
ton Square, to driving to the White Star 

58 


pier, and to other particulars given in his 
statement some veeks before. 

“Can you identify the lady in the brown 
dress who engaged you on that night, and 
whom you drove, together with the other 
lady, to the pier?” asked the District At- 
torney. 

The cabby strode through the gate to the 
counsel table, and standing before Mar- 
garet Allison said, “This is the lady.” The 
defendant merely looked him calmly in the 
eyes. 

“Did you hear anything said in the cab 
while you were driving to the pier?” asked 
the District Attorney. 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Repeat exactly what- you heard.” 

“I heard someone say this: T suspect 
you!’ ” 

“Did you hear anything else?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“What did you hear?” 

“I heard the same voice say T tell you, 
you are too affectionate!’ ” 

“Are you sure it was the same voice that 
spoke both these sentences?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“What did the other person answer?” 


“I could not catch the reply, sir.” 

“Describe exactly the other lady who you 
say accompanied the lady in brown,” said 
Wainright in cross-examination. 

“I can’t, sir,” replied the cabby with a 
great air of candour. “You see, as I said, 
I dozed outside while I was waiting for 
’em, and the first lady got inside before I 
fairly woke up, and then at the pier they 
both got out and walked some distance be- 
fore I saw them.” 

“Describe the second lady that you saw 
at the pier.” 

“I couldn’t see her face. She and the 
lady in brown were going on toward the 
Cunard pier.” 

“If you did not see a second lady get 
into your cab, or get out, how do you 
know you carried two ladies to the pier 


that night?” 

“Because I heard the talking in the cab, 
and I heard two voices, though I could not 
distinguish what one voice said.” 

“Might there not have been a gentleman 
in the cab with the lady in brown?” 

“I’m sure it wasn’t a gentleman!” pro- 
tested the cabby, and here it was observed 
that the defendant smiled. 

“Had a little drink, perhaps, that even- 
ing, Mr. Weir?” asked Wainright good- 
naturedly. 

“Well, sir, you really couldn t call it a 
drink!” replied the blushing witness. 

“Not the kind of a drink that would make 
you see double or hear double, when you 
ought to see or hear single, or vice versa?” 

“No, sir, I take my oath I hadn t had 
any o’ that!” protested the cabman, evi- 
dently thinking he was being accused ot 
partaking of some new and mysterious mix- 
ture, and with a laugh Wainright allowed 

“Your^ Honour,” said the District Attor- 
ney “I ask that the defendant’s dog be 
now produced, for purposes of identifica- 
tion by two witnesses I shall next put on 

the stand.” , . ^ 

“Let the dog be brought ^ 

tendant who has had him m charge, sai 
the Judge, and immediately Captain Jinks 
was led into the court-room, entering the 
enclosure reserved for the Prosecution and 


the court officers. He was taken past his 
lady, who gave him an encouraging pat to 
go on, and now he stood before the Dis- 
trict Attorney, wagging his tail. The Dis- 
trict Attorney took from the table drawer 
a stiff card, about the size of one of a 
playing pack. Through a little hole at 
the end of the card a string was passed, 
and with this string Jim Riley was directed 
to tie the card to Captain Jinks’ collar. 
On the card in large printed letters was 
the legend “People’s Exhibit A.” While 
this label was being attached to him Cap- 
tain Jinks showed the utmost composure. 
He was looking very happy and most beau- 
tifully groomed, and had an air of gal- 
lantry about him with his huge orange rib- 
bons flying from his topknot. He cocked 
his head to one side in an inquiring man- 
ner at the District Attorney, as though to 
say, “You seem to be the stage manager. 
What ‘turn’ do you want me to do?” 

A police officer was then called to the 

witness chair. ^ • z. 

“I call your attention,” said the District 
Attorney, “to ‘People’s Exhibit A,’ and 
ask you if you ever saw it before.” 

At the indignity of being designated as 
an “it” Captain Jinks seemed to take no 
offence. He stood there, glancing first at 
the District Attorney, then at the witness. 

“Yes, sir,” answered the witness. 

“Please tell where you saw this dog last, 
to the best of your knowledge.” 


“It was something over seven years ago, 
now,” said the officer, “in Fourteenth 
Street. He was with his master, a certain 
Daniel Johnson, once a circus performer, 
who had taught the dog to steal purses 
from ladies’ muffs. The dog nabbed a purse 
from the muff of this defendant, and car- 
ried it to his master. I was about to ar- 
rest the man when this defendant said she 
had given the dog the purse purposely that 
Johnson was a friend of hers, and I was 
soft-hearted enough to let the man go. I 
found out that Johnson gave the dog to 
this defendant, and then lighted out to fo 
eign parts, and I suppose^ that the de 
fendant knows where he is.” 

The witness was dismissed, but Harrison 

Wainright interposed. 

“Your Honour,” said he, “if there is any 
connection between all that 
has just told and the murder of Frances 
Fennimore Farrington I fail to . 

have no cross-examination to make of this 
witness, for his testimony seems to me to 

be entirely irrelevant.” 

“I was merely establishing the identity 
of the dog and his antecedents before 


“Then,” retorted Wainright, “I 
ike to inquire most respectfully of the 
ourt if it is the dog that is being tried 
or the murder, and if I have been appomt- 
!d as counsel for this French Poodle, m 
vhich case I should like to consult with 

“The eminent Counsel for Defence is too 
acetious,” replied the District 
‘If he has no cross-examination to make. 

: will call the next witness, who will en- 
ighten him concerning the inaportance of 
;he production of ‘People’s Exhibit A. 

Wainright waved his hands in disgust, 
ind the court crier announced— 

“Phillip Edgerton!” _ 

“What is your business, Mr. Edgerton. 


asked the District Attorney. 

“A driver of cabs, in the employ of 
Starling and Company, Liverymen.” 
stand herself. She was assured that none 

‘‘Please state precisely what happened, 
and what experience you had in the early 
hours of the morning of J^ebruary 15th 
last.” 

‘‘I was returning to the stables after hav- 
ing driven a party home from the theatre, 
when in Broadway, near 72nd Street, a 
gentleman hailed me, ana asked me to drive 
him to West Street, or near there, about 
opposite Pier 50, he said, or thereabout. 
I told him I couldn’t, as I was not a regu- 
lar street cabby, but belonged to a livery. 
He said he was in a hurry, couldn’t find 
any other cab, and he would pay me well, so 
I decided to do it. 

‘‘In driving him I happened to turn into 
Greenwich Street- before we got to West 
Street, and he put his head out of the cab 
and said, ‘Wait a minute, it’s not really the 
dock I want, but a street right near here, 
and the name of it commences with ‘B,’ 
Buthen Street, or some such name. Do 
you know it?’ 

‘‘I immediately thought of Bethune Street, 
and asked him if he meant that, and he said 
yes, that was it, and I was to drive along 
carefully and slowly from Greenwich Street 
through Bethune Street, while he looked at 
the houses, because he had forgotten a 
number. Suddenly he jumped out of the 
cab, just as I saw a young woman and a 
dog standing in the entryway of a tenement 
house. She was a very handsomely dressed 
woman, it seemed to me, to be coming out 
of such a poor house as that. She came 
toward the gentleman very quickly, and he 
said. ‘Why this isn’t the place, anyway, is 
it?’ She said, ‘No, it’s farther along, but I 
stopped in this entryway to prevent your mak- 
ing a noise.’ The dog jumped into the cab, 
and then the gentleman said, as he was 
helping the lady in, ‘Is it over?’ and she 
whispered, ‘Yes, she’s dead.’ 

‘‘W'hen they w^ere both in the cab I asked 
the gentleman where he wanted me to drive 
to. He seemed to consult with the lady 
a minute, and then he said, ‘Oh, drive us 
about for a half-hour or so through some 
fairly decent streets, and then go to the 
Hotel Illington and stop there, and then, if 
you want to make a tenner, you can drive 
me back to the dock.’ 

‘‘So I drove them about for three-quarters 
of an hour, and then I stopped at the ‘Il- 
lington,’ and the gentleman helped the lady 
out, patted the dog, and said ‘Good-bye, old 
fellow,’ jumped into the cab again, and I 
drove him to the foot of West 12th Street. 
I asked him which pier he wanted, and he 
said. ‘Right here,’ and he paid me the ten 
dollars he had promised, and I left him.” 

‘‘What pier were you in front of when 
you left him?” 

‘‘I couldn’t name any one particular pier, 
for one pier comes right after another. It 
was just between Pier 50 and Pier 51 I 
should sav. Those are the Cunard Line 
and the W^est Indies ships. I noticed the 
word Jamaica over a pier directly in front 
of me.” 

‘‘W'hat did this gentleman look like?” 

‘‘Well, he was^a tall man, smooth-faced, 
weighed probably about two hundred pounds, 
light complected, and looked about thirty 
or thereabouts. Rather a prosperous-look- 
ing man, too, well-set-up, and all that.” 


‘‘Do you recognize the lady you took into 
your cab — that is, is she in this court- 
room?’’ 

‘‘Yes, sir,” and the witness nodded toward 
the defendant at the counsel table. 

‘‘Are you sure that this defendant is the 
lady you droye in your cab that night?” 

‘‘Yes, sir, quite sure.” 

‘‘How was she dressed?” 

‘‘In black, sir.” 

‘‘Are you sure she was dressed in black?” 

‘‘Yes, sir.” 

‘‘Describe her costume.” 

‘‘She wore a great big black coat falling 
to her feet, black furs around her neck, and 
a hat that had a heavy veil over it and at 
least appeared to be black.” 

‘‘You, of course, had no opportunity of 
seeing the dress she wore underneath the 
big black coat?” 

‘‘No, sir.” 

‘‘It might have been brown, might it not?” 

‘‘Oh yes, sir.” 

‘‘Her hat might have been a brown one 
with a heavy black veil over it?” 

‘‘I should think it might, though that I 
don’t know, sir.” 

‘‘I show you ‘People’s Exhibit 10,’ and 
ask you if you think it could haye been 
this hat?” and the District Attorney 
whisked a smart brown hat on to the table. 

‘‘That’s a browm hat, and it didn’t look 
like that,” said the witness. 

Here the District Attorney deftly covered 
the brown hat with a thick, black chiffon 
veil, several times doubled. He stuck a 
pin here and there to hold the veil, produc- 
ing a font ensemble of somewhat startling 
effect, whereupon Counsel for Defence ex- 
claimed, ‘‘The learned District Attorney is 
a very skilful milliner!” 

‘‘What about this hat now?” asked the 
District Attorney, swinging the head-piece 
about on his hand, then whirling it from 
finger to finger, as though proud of his pro- 
duction. ‘‘Doesn’t it look like the hat the 
lady had on?” 

‘‘No, sir!” said the witness very decidedly. 

‘‘Isn’t it black now?” 

‘‘Yes, sir.” 

‘‘Then what’s the matter with it?” shout- 
ed the District Attorney angrily. 

‘‘It ain’t stylish, sir. The lady’s hat was 
a stunner. The veil had sort o’ kinks to 
it that you didn’t put in.” 

‘‘I should advise the dainty District At- 
tornev to practise kink-making!” put in 
Harrison Wainright. and the District At- 
tornev smiled benignlv, thanking the Coun- 
sel for Defence for the suggestion. 

‘‘What kind of a dog was it that the lady 
had with her?” 

‘‘A right smart-lookine little black beast, 
who stood up on his hind lees w'hen the 
gentleman patted him good-bye.” 

‘‘Is thi<3 the dog?” asked the District At- 
tornev, pointing to Captain Jinks. 

‘‘He looks like him. sir, though he didn’t 
haye any ribbon on, as far as I can remem- 
ber. Dees this dog stand on his hind 
lees, sir?” 

“I belieye he does,” answered the Dis- 
trict Attorney, and turning to Captain Jinks 
he snapped his fingers at him. saying, ‘‘Up, 
sir!” But Captain Jinks treated him with 
silent contempt, remaining on all fours. 

“If he won’t stand on his hind legs I 
wouldn’t like to identify him in a serious 
case like this,” said the witness positively. 

“^Cannot your Honour order that the dog 


6o 


be made to stand on his hind legs?” ask- 
ed the District Attorney, addressing the 
Court. 

“Your Honour, as the apparent counsel 
for the poodle, who seems now to hVve be- 
come the defendant in this case, I protest 
that my client should have the right to re- 
fuse to answer on the ground that it will 
Incriminate himself,” said Harrison Wain- 
right, with a great air of solemnity. 

There was a sound of the gavel to quell 
levity. “The Court sees no reason for mak- 
ing the dog stand on his hind legs, and 
besides, the Court does not know how to 
do it.” 

“But doubtless the defendant, your Hon- 
our, can induce the dog ao do so,” pleaded 
the District Attorney. 

‘T object!” cried Harrison Wainrighi 
excitedly. 

“Objection sustained,” said the Court. 
“The Court cannot compel the defendant to 
do a thing that may incriminate her.” 

Harrison Wainright declined to cross- 
examine the witness, and the cabman left 
the chair, after adding greatly to the value 
of his testimony by the statement that it 
was about one o’clock in the morning when 
he got to Bethune Street and took the lady 
into the cab with the gentleman. 

Then the District Attorney directed the 
Clerk to call for Peter Dennison. At the 
entrance to the stand a small boy of ten 
or twelve had the nature of an oath ex- 
plained to him, and he solemnly swore to 
tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing 
but the truth. 

“Peter, did you ever see this dog be- 
fore?” asked the District Attorney, point- 
ing to “People’s Exhibit A.” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Tell when you saw him, where it was, 
and who was with him.” 

“Now, that there dog — why, hello, Cap’n- 
— I see with the lady over there.” He point- 
ed to the defendant. 

“Where did you see the lady and the 
dog together?” 

“Why, I seen ’em lots o’ times together 
at lots o’ places, and wunst they was in 
the Square.” 

“Washington Square?” 

“Yes, sir, an’ that wuz one time when the 
lady gimme a quarter dollar. She was 
stanin’ outside the house where Mis’ Her- 
bert lives, what keeps the boarders where 
1 delivers papers. The lady buys a paper 
o’ me that night an’ gimme a quarter an' 
says keep the change. She wuz goin’ up the 
steps o’ that house with the dog, an’ she 
sudden-like turns round and says to the 
dog, ‘I’ve changed my mind, Cap’n Jinks; 
not to-night!’ and then she starts over 
to Broadway.” 

Here it was shown that the night of 
which Peter testified was some time before 
Miss Farrington had disappeared from Mrs. 
Herbert's. 

“How was this lady dressed?” asked the 
District Attorney. 

“Brown dress and great big brown hat 
an’ veil,” said the child. 

“Would you think this was the dress?” 
asked the District Attorney, spreading out 
the broadcloth gown before him. 

“Yessir, I sh’d say it war, an’ she gimme 
a quarter that time, an’ lots o’ times when 
I sells papers to ’er she says ‘Keep the 
change’; an’ she wear that same dress to 


my house to see my little sister, an’ make 
Cap’n dance for ’er; an’ Mamie she laugh 
fit to kill, though ’er back be lame.” 

“I didn’t ask you those things, Peter. 
That will do!” said the District Attorney 
hurriedly. 

“But I got to tell un to yo jest the 
same!” protested the boy. “Didn’t the oath 
stt? the huU truth' Yessir, I got to tell 
un; an’ my mother says to tell the hull 
truth like the oath says to do, an’ she 
says if I don’t tell the hull truth I’ll go to 
hell!” 

“Your Honour,” said the District Attor- 
ney, “might you not make it plain to this 
boy that he should answer only such ques- 
tions as he is asked?” 

“Mr. Ronner, please sir ” began the 

child, turning a frightened face to the 
Judge, when he was interrupted by a laugh 
from all those about him. 

“Ain’t that yer name, sir?” asked the 
boy anxiously. “Are they laflin’ cause I got 
the name wrong? I thought as the other 
gentleman just now called ye Mr. Ron- 
ner!” With that the boy pointed to the 
District Attorney. 

His Honour’s eyes grew suspiciously dim. 
“Have you finished with the child?” he 
asked, turning to the District Attorney. 
“Yes, your Honour.” 

Harrison Wainright approached the boy 
kindly. “What was it you wanted to tell 
about this lady, Peter?” he asked. 

“Well, ye see, mister, my mother made 
me promise to tell the hull truth like the 
oath says; and this here lady she wunst 
brung my mother a whole satchell full o’ 
grocers an’ canned things, an’ when my lit- 
tle sister died — that wuz Mamie what had 
the lame back — this here lady she come an’ 
fix ’er all up pretty when she was deaa 
in a white dress an’ pink flowers — she put 
the dress on Mamie ’erself, an’ she bought 
a coffin. Yessir, and she giv my mother 
money wunst to go sailin’ on a boat, an’ 
she sent my father to a place where they 
giv him gold to drink, so’s he’d stop goin’ 
to the saloon, an’ he don’t go to saloons 

no more now, an ” 

“Your Honour, I protest that this is not 
cross-examination,” said the District At- 
torney, with knitted brows. 

“Mr. Ronner, I’m only tellin’ the hull 
truth like the oath says,” said the boy, 
appealing to the Judge. He did not know 
what “cross-examination” meant, but he 
suspected that somehow the “other gentle- 
man” was trying to make him break his 
oath. 

“What else were you going to say, Pe- 
ter?” asked Wainright, after having wait- 
ed for a judicial reproof, which did not 
come. 

“Well, I guess I’ve told the hull truth 
now,” said the boy faintly, wiping away a 
drop from his nose, and he went from the 
stand, leaving many wet eyes in the court- 
room. 

Next came several clerks and bell boys 
from the Hotel Illington, who testified that 
one night, or rather one morning, between 
one and two o’clock, on a date somewhere 
about the middle of February, Miss Allison 
had returned to the hotel with her dog 
apparently in a state of great excitement. 
Not one of them was willing to swear to 
the exact date, but they remembered it be- 
cause it was so unusual for her or any 


other lady to be out so late at night. No 
one was with her, except the dog, when 
she walked into the hotel. Where she 
had been, and how she had returned, 
whether by cab, subway, surface car, or 
walking they could not say, for at that 
hour nobody was standing at the hotel en- 
trance. They remembered that something 
had happened to the elevator, and she made 
a complaint about having to walk upstairs, 
though her suite was only two flights up, 
and she very often did walk up, as did 
many of her visitors. Before this particu- 
lar time she had never seemed to mind 
anything happening to the elevator; in- 
deed, she had said on engaging her suite 
that she would not go higher than two 
flights, as she often used the stairs. On 
this particular occasion she had looked 
very tired, almost faint as she passed the 
office, and when informed that the elevator 
was not running she made an exclamation 
of impatience before she started to walk 
up. None of these witnesses could say for 
certain how Miss Allien was dressed that 
night. Certainly they remembered that 
she had often been seen in the brown dress 
that was exhibited by the District Attor- 
ney. Yes, they had a recollection of a 
very handsome plain black coat that she 
sometimes wore. They did not know if 
she had it on the night in question. 

Asked if Miss Allison ever had any par- 
ticular men callers, they remembered only 
certain well-known editors and literary 
men who called occasionally. They knew 
of no especial or frequent visitor, and in- 
deed during the past two years she had 
seemed to be too busy to have many vis- 
itors. 

Asked then if any callers might have 
gone to her suite without any one in the 
house knowing it, the reply was that this 
would be quite easy if such callers had 
not used the elevator, as besides the prin- 
cipal entrance on the Avenue there was 
a side entrance around the corner, where 
there was very often no boy in attendance. 
This side entrance was at the foot of the 
stairs, which were some distance from the 
elevator. 

“Annette Lemoyne!” called the Clerk, 
and there entered through the witness- 
room door a trembling, frightened-looking 
bit of humanity, 

“You are a chambermaid in the Hotel 
Illington?’’ 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Has not Miss Allison, whose rooms you 
have looked after, often been away from 
her apartment all night during the past 
eighteen months?” 

No answer came from the quivering lips. 

“Answer me!” 

“Yes — yes, sir.” 

“Did she not always tell you on those 
nights to say nothing about her absences 
to anybody in the house, and not to men- 
tion them to the other chambermaids?” 

No answer, but only a frightened look 
toward the defendant, who now glared 
angrily at the District Attorney. 

“Answer me! Do you hear?” in tones 
of thunder. 

“Yes — yes, sir; she — she went to stay 
with a poor sick woman.” 

“Did she tell you that?” 

“No, sir; but she was always going to 
stay with poor sick women,” 


The ^District Attorney broke forth into 
derisive laughter, which frightened the girl 
more than his thunderous tones had done 
“Where did >ou work before you went to , 
the Hotel Illington as a chambermaid?” 
he suddenly asked. 

Little Annette’s face fell into her hands, 
and a groan was her only reply. ^ 

“Were you not in prison before you went 
to the Hotel Illlington where Miss Allison 
got you your place, asking especially that 
you might be put on her floor, that she 
might use you for her own purposes, and 
to keep her secrets concerning the nights i 
she spent out of the hotel?’’ screamed the 
District Attorney, adopting somewhat of 
Harrison Wainright’s tacties to get in a 
half-dozen questions at once for effect on 
the jury. 

There was still no answer, but every 
one-,in the room turned to dook at the de- ; 
fendant, who for the first time during the | 
trial seemed to have lost her composure i 
and was on the verge of an outburst of J 
anger. Margaret Allison’s face went white, j 
her hands were clenched, and her counsel 
seemed to have difficulty in restraining her. - 
“Answer me!” cried the District Attor- 
ney, leaving the place where he stood, 
looking significantly at the jury, and going 
within a few steps of the mite on the 
stand, who now lifted her face and sobbed — 
“In prison — yes, I went there! I been 
thief, and now I murder! I killed the Far- 
rington because she did wicked to Mees 
Allison, who been good to me, poison her 
with the after-dinner cafe.” 

“Oh! The poor child!” 

The cry came like a groan from the de- 
fendant, who had risen; then, whispering ' 
rapidly to Harrison Wainwright, sat down 
again. 

“Your Honour,” said Wainright, turning 
to the Judge, “this poor, frightened, un- 
fortunate girl knows nothing whatever of 
this case, but out of her love for this de- 
fendant, and in her ignorance ” 

“Yes, yes!” interrupted His Honour, 
casting a kindly eye on the poor little 
shivering waif. “She shall be cared for . 
by the matron upstairs, and sent home 
when she is able to go.” 

“Mr. District Attorney,” he said, turning 
sharply toward that gentleman, “this wit- 
ness can be of no further use to you. Con- 
tinue with your other witnesses,” and an 
attendant led Annette away. 

CHAPTER XXIV. 

A SISTER TO ANNETTE. 

On the fourth day of the trial several 
New York editors gave evidence concern- 
ing their business relations with Frances 
Fennimore Farrington. They had published 
her stories, both light and serious, and had 
written to her and received from her such 
letters as were necessary to carry out the 
transactions. In payment, they had sent 
her cheques, made out, by her written re- 
quest, merely to “F. Farrington,” and these 
cheques had been endorsed by her over to a 
person by the name of “H. St. John.” On 
examination, it was found that these 
cheques had been through an unimportant 
little bank in the village of Ashburg, in 
Ohio. Not one of these editors had ever 
seen their contributor. Even Mr. James 
Lloyd, editor of the “Arlington Magazine,” 


when put upon the witness stand, stated 
that he had tried at four different times to 
arrange an interview with Miss Farring- 
ton, but had been unsuccessful, she having 
written excusing herself from calling at his 
office, unce ne nad gone to the address in 
Washington Square, and was told by the 
landlady that she was out. 

The theatrical manager, who produced 
her play, gave the same kind of testimony, 
and Mr. Henry Benson, of Benson and Com- 
pany, asserted that he had twice gone to 
the house in Washington Square in an ef- 
fort to see the author of the most success- 
ful book his house had ever published, and 
had been denied admittance. He had left 
his card, and the next day had received a 
note from Miss Farrington saying that she 
was not able to give him a personal inter- 
view. Asked if he had ever had any deal- 
ings with the defendant, Mr. Benson said 
that he had not, although she had offered 
him a book which he had been obliged to 
decline. He looked fearlessly and sadly 
into the face of the defendant as he said 
this. Certainly this venerable publisher 
would have been somewhat astonished had 
anyone told him that the old-established 
house of which he was now merely the 
ostensible manager was in reality the prop- 
erty of the prisoner at the bar ; that Mar- 
garet Allison, the defendant, who sat at the 
counsel table looking at him so calmly, was 
herself Benson and Company, and had some- 
one in the court-room giving this same in- 
formation to her, it would probably have 
made no difference in the quiet gaze with 
which she regarded this elderly man to 
whom she had once offered a book in the 
belief that its publication by Benson and 
Company might help them to bolster up 
their falling fortunes. 

After Mr. Benson had left the stand, his 
place was taken by the cashier of the Sixth 
National Bank, where the defendant kept 
her current account. He seemed to be an 
unwilling witness, but by deft questioning 
he was forced to admit that although up 
to eighteen months before Miss Allison had 
very rarely deposited money, but nearly 
always cheques, she had since that time 
deposited more money than cheques, and 
had frequently appeared at the bank with 
a large roll of money for deposit. He 
could not help noticing this, but, of course, 
had not considered it his business to make 
any remarks to Miss Allison upon the pe- 
culiarity of the circumstance. He made it 
known that at the present time Miss Alli- 
son’s balance was nearly seven thousand 
dollars, a larger amount than he remem- 
bered her to have had before at any one 
time. It was often her custom to draw out 
a considerable sum for investing, and he 
remembered that during the past winter he 
had handled several cheques made out to 
various firms of brokers. 

Then other editors were again called to 
the stand to testify that few stories by 
Margaret Allison had appeared in the cur- 
rent magazines during the past year and 
longer. Nevertheless, according to the cash- 
ier’s statement, the defendant had been 
steadily adding to her balance month by 

month. . 

By this line of conducting the evidence, 
it was suspected that the District Attorney 
would try to prove that the defendant had 
in some way got possession of money that 
did not belong to her, and that among his 


other counts against her he intended, in- 
cidentally, to prove forgery, was guessed by 
his putting upon the stand two noted ex- 
perts in handwriting to identify some scrib- 
bled signatures as being similar to other 
signatures which he gave them to inspect, 

A half-dozen members of New York’s lit- 
erary set were called to testify to the jeal- 
ousy the defendant had always shown to- 
ward her rival, the Englishwoman. They 
said that while everybody else at the social 
gatherings which Margaret Allison attended 
had taken occasion to praise the work of 
the gifted young foreign writer, the defen- 
dant had always been observed to keep a 
silent tongue and a sneering face. 

There was then a call for Mrs. Gregory- 
Mills, who flusteringly made her way to 
the stand, and, still more flusteringly, left 
it, after Harrison Wainright had made her 
admit that she had never seen Miss Far- 
rington in her life, had absolutely no ac- 
quaintance with any friends of hers, and 
tha'’ she had given her famous garden 
party “to meet Miss Frances Fennimore 
Farrington’’ without having first obtained 
that lady’s permission, and that the lady 
had written her a note declining to be 
present. In the District Attorney’s re- 
direct examination, Mrs. Gregory-Mills said 
she had not preserved the note, and it was 
apparent that he was much distressed over 
this, as he would have considered it a val- 
uable “exhibit” for The People, as showing 
Miss Farrington’s style of handwriting to 
nmch better advantage than could be done 
with the mere signatures which he had been 
able to put in evidence for Mrs, Gregory- 
Mills said the note was entirely hand-writ- 
ten. As this witness retired, quite undone, 
she noted many triumphant looking faces 
among her arch-enemies, certain other 
would-be social leaders, who were attend- 
ing the trial. It was believed that Mrs. 
Gregory-Mills would immediately take a 
trip abroad, to escape their sneers. 

“Miss Ella 0’Call.ahan!” 

A pretty Irish dressmaker walked quickly 
to the witness chair, and settled herself in 
defiant attitude toward the Prosecution. 

“Miss O’Callahan, are you a dressmaker?’* 
asked the District Attorney. 

“Now, have you any call to ask me that, 
when you know it as well as I do?” snapped 
the young woman. She was admonished by 
the Judge to answer properly, so she 
amended her answer. 

“That’s what I claim to be!” 

“Did you make this dress?” and the no- 
torious brown dress was placed in her lap. 

“Of course I made it! Don’t you see my 
name on the waist-belt, and isn’t that how 
you got my address to bring me here?” 

“For whom did you make it?” 

“I made it for Miss Allison, and a time 
I had getting the material too, my Joseph- 
ine running all over the town and wearing 
her shoes out, carrying a lock of Miss Alli- 
son’s hair to match it. But it paid, that 
it did, for I will say that never brown-eyed, 
brown-haired woman could look like she 
did in that brown dress!” 

“Will your Honour please admonish this 
witness that she is here to answer ques- 
tions, and not to advertise her dressmak- 
ing establishment?” asked the District At- 
torney. 

“Make your answers shorter, madam, 
said the Judge, bowing courteously. 

63 


“How much did you charge for making 
this dress?” 

Here the witness showed fine scorn. “I’d 
have you know 1 charged for the whole 
dress, and not for the making separately. 
I’m not the sort that takes goods bought 
at sales to make up, and let ladies find 
their own whalebones and linings!” 

“How much for the whole dress, then?” 
shouted the District Attorney, with a de- 
spairing lift of his hands to heaven. 

“One hundred and thirty-three dollars, 
and cheap at the price! Why, the work I 
put on that skirt alone nearly blinded me, 
but it paid, that it did!” 

“Isn’t that a pretty big price for a lit- 
erary lady to pay for a dress?” 

“Now, I hope you don’t suppose I’m ac- 
customed to cater to literary people!” 
snapped Miss O’Callahan. “Of all the dow- 
dy dowds, commend me to a literary wo- 
man; and besides, they never pay their 
bills!” 

“Then you don’t consider the defendant a 
literary woman. Miss O’Callahan?” asked 
the District Attorney blandly. 

“She’s different from the most of ’em, 
as I often say to her! It’s a pleasure to 
dress her, that it is!” Here she nodded her 
head smilingly toward the defendant, then 
glared at the Prosecutor. 

“You have just said. Miss O’Callahan, 
that literary people never pay their bills. 
Did this defendant pay her bills?” 

“Did she pay her bills? Didn’t she al- 
ways pay ’em, and sometimes in advance, 
I’d like to know, when I was a bit short? 
Pay her bills!” 

“Ah! She has been ordering her cus- 
tomary amount of clothes during the past 
year?” 

“She never had such an outfit in her life 
as she’s got at this minute. Why, that 
dress I made for her to wear to a garden 
party last summer — yes, to wear to meet 
that Englishwoman you s<ay she’s killed, she 
that wouldn’t hurt a fly — why, you couldn’t 
get another thing like that outside of Paris, 
and me slaving my fingers to the bone in 
hot July weather to get it done in time 
too!” 

“Really, madam, I must ask you to con- 
tain yourself in the matter of self-adver- 
tising!” thundered the District Attorney. 

“Then why did you bring me down here 
away from my work and ask a lot of im- 
pudent questions. I’d like to know?” re- 
torted the exasperated modiste; “me with 
a debutante outfit on my hands and a whole 
wedding trousseau!” 

Despairingly the District Attorney ap- 
pealed to his Honour for protection 
against the tongue of the now thoroughly 
infuriated little Irishwoman; and mildly 
the Judge admonished Miss O’Callahan to 
shorten her answers. 

“How much money had this defendant 
paid her during the past year for articles 
of wearing apparel?” 

Miss O’Callahan turned to the Judge. 
“That’s a very impertinent question, your 
Honour,” she said. “Why, every custom- 
er I’ve got will leave me if I take to tat- 
tling to all New York what their bills 
amount to!” 

Finally, when it was explained to her that 
in a court of law a great deal of prying 
into well-guarded secrets was necessary, 
she answered with an appealing look, as 

64 


though begging pardon of the defendant: 

“Something over two thousand dollars, 
but I don’t know the exact amount.” 

“Is not that a large amount of money 
for a self-supporting woman to spend on 
clothes?” asked the District Attorney. 
“Haven’t you many a married lady cus- 
tomer, the wife of a rich man, who does 
not spend more?” 

“That I have!” answered Miss O’Calla- 
han; “the stingy things.” 

The District Attorney' looked meaningly 
at the jury. He had proven beyond a doubt 
the ownership of the brown dress, and 
he had proven that the defendant seemed 
to have been supplied with a large amount 
of money to spend on clothes. 

Wainright walked over toward the wit- 
ness. “Miss O’Callahan,” he asked, “do 
you make this defendant’s coats as well as 
her dresses?” 

“All except her very heavy ones and her 
furs — yes, sir.” 

“Did you ever make a long black coat 
for her?” 

“Oh, yes, several of them. I made her 
one at the beginning of the winter.” 

“The one she has on?” asked Wainright. 

“Why, I made it. But that isn’t a winter 
coat, it’s for spring!” answered the dress- 
maker scornfully. “I made her a proper 
broadcloth coat for the winter.” 

“Will you please tell me all about that 
coat — just exactly what it looked like?” 

“It was very simple, but very smart, I 
can tell you that. It just touched the 
ground. She always liked to have a coat 
like that to wear when she was going to 
a place which required a very dressy frock. 
She never liked to show her pretty clothes 
in the street. I made it almost tight in 
the back with shirring, and in the front it 
fell from the neck rather full, and she wore 
a black cloth belt with it that was attach- 
ed at the back.” 

“Like this?” and here Counsel for De- 
fence turned his back to the witness and 
placed his two hands together, as nearly 
as possible resembling a woman trying to 
feel if her back was properly fitted. His 
face was very solemn while he did this, his 
eyes anxious. 

“Yes, something like that,” assented Miss 
O’Callahan, quite as solemnly as her ques- 
tioner. 

“My venerable friend. Counsel for De- 
fence, will make an excellent dressmaker 
with practice and patience!” tittered the 
District Attorney. 

Wainright was too absorbed to make a 
retort. “Now, Miss O’Callahan, did the coat 
have a collar, and of what kind?” 

“It had a rolling collar, trimmed with 
bands of the broadcloth stitched on.” 

“.4nd was it lined?” asked Wainright, 
with a tone of appeal in his voice. 

“Of course it was lined,” said the wit- 
ness impatiently. “You don’t suppose she’d 
wear it unlined, do you? It was lined with 
white brocaded silk.” 

“With whiter’ shouted Wainright. “It 
could not have been white. Miss O’Calla- 
han,” and now the young lawyer’s face was 
pathetic. 

“I tell you it was white!” retorted Miss 
O Callahan. “Don’t you suppose I know 
what’s the proper way to line my coats?” 

Wainright began to walk excitedly in 
front of her. Suddenly his face brightened. 


!“But couldn’t the white lining he removed 
iBomehow, Miss O’Callahan?” he asked. 

“Whv of course; it could be ripped 
out.” 

“And couldn’t another lining be put in — 
some pther colour, black or red or blue or 
green?” 

-“Of course!” said the witness in con- 
temptuous tone. 

“And would a dressmaker have lo put the 
|,otner lining in? Could not almost anybody 
i rip the lining out very carefully, and lay 
! it on some other colour, and cut it ex- 
i actly like it, and then sew it in — now 
I couldn’t they really. Miss O’Callahan, don’t 
[you think?” 

i' Counsel for Defence looked forlornly ap- 
pealing in his bachelor ignorance, and 
somehow the witness felt he was trying to 
get at certain important evidence which 
neither she nor anybody else could under- 
jStand. She spoke quite comfortingly — 

“Yes, they could, Mr. Wainright, if they 
had some knowledge of sewing and were 
careful, but probably they couldn’t do it as 
perfectly as I could.” 

“And now', that collar with stitcTTed bands 
on It. Couldn’t the bands be all taken off 
r and the collar made to look different, or 
I couldn’t a new collar be made and sewed 
i on In place of the first one — now couldn’t 
! that be done, too?” 

“Yes, it could, Mr. Wainright, just as 
i easy,” assented Miss O’Cailahan, nodding 
: positively. 

“That’s all. Miss O’Callahan,” said 
Wainright breathlessly, and he mopped 
his brow of the perspiration that had gath- 
ered on It when he had feared he might be 
contradicted by this noted expert in the 
matter of collars and linings. Back at the 
counsel table, he took a glass of water, and 
settled in his chair with more of confl- 

I dence in his face than he had worn since 
the trial began. 

i Edward Jackson, manufacturer, was next 
I called to the stand, and before his exami- 
r nation began tne District Attorney again 
. asked his Honour that “Exhibit A” be 
brought into the court-room, and Captdin 
Jinks smartly trotted in close at the heels 
of his keeper, Jim Riley. 

“Mr. Jackson, have you ever seen this dog 
before?” asked the- District Attorney, and 
■ Captain Jinks was walked slowly up and 
L down In front of the witness. 

“I can say with absolute positiveness that 
I 1 have,” answered Mr. Jackson. He was 
■ then told to tell precisely when he had 
! seen him. 

“Some months ago — I cannot give the ex- 
act date — I w^as leaning against one of the 
: trees at the entrance to the park in Wash- 
i Ington Square, w'hen I saw a lady walking 
’ on the opposite side where the houses are 
F situated, leading by a leather dog-lead a 
black French poodle-dog. He walked quite 
contentedly with her for some distance, 
when suddenly he squatted down in front 
■" of a house which I remember well and have 
since learned is occupied by a Mrs. Herbert, 

I who takes lodgers. The lady tried to in- 
j duce the dog to go on, but he refused to 
budge, and then he began holding up his 
: paw at her and shaking it in her face. She 
shook her hand at him, seemed to be argu- 
ing with him very gently. I heard her voice 
but could not tell what she said, but I 
knew she was explaining to him that he 
must trot along. For at least ten minutes. 
I should say, this went on. I particularly 


noticed all that took place, because I am 
very fond of dogs, and I was so glad the 
lady was patient and did not attempt to hit 
the dog. She merely seemed to be appeal- 
ing to him. The dog got terribly excited, 
panted, and once in a while gave a little 
sharp bark of protest. Once he got away 
from her and started up the steps of the 
house, but she ran after him, and large as 
ht. was she took him in her arms and carried 
him for almost a block. That w'as the last 
I saw of them.” 

“You are very sure this is the dog?” 

“1 am as uositive as it is possible to be 
of anything.” 

“Do you see in this court-room the lady 
who was with the dog?” 

The witness looked about the room very 
slowly and carefully. 

“I do not.” 

“Look again, very carefully,” commanded 
the District Attorney. 

Again the witness looked, and again he 
said no. 

“Look at this defendant!” said the Dis- 
trict Attorney, and Edward Jackson’s eyes 
travelled to Margaret Allison, reating them 
on her. 

“Was not this defendant with the dog that 
day?” asked the District Attorney. ^ 

“She was not.” 

“Was she not wearing a heavy veil so 
that you could not distinguish the lady’s 
features?” cried the District Attorney in 
amazement tinged with anger. 

“The lady was not Wearing any veil at 
all, and she was not in the slightest degree 
like this defendant.” 

“Describe the lady you saw with the 
dog!” and now the District Attorney glow- 
ered at the witness. 

“If the defendant would stand up I could 
tell something about whether there was 
any similarity in height,” said the witness, 
and Margaret stood up. 

“The lady I saw with the dog,” went on 
the witness, “was at least and inch and a 
half shorter than this defendant. I call 
this defendant a woman of medium height, 
and I should describe the lady with the 
dog as a short woman. She had blue eyes, 
while this defendant has brown. Her hair 
was a very light brown, almost blonde, 
while this defendant has quite dark brown 
hair. Her nose was what I .should call 
aquiline, while the defendant’s is not. Her 
neck was shorter than the defendant’s. She 
was an altogether different looking woman. 
She — she — she ” 

The witness stammered and looked em- 
barrassed. 

“Please go on.” said the District At- 
torney, “with what you were about to 
slay.” 

“Well,” said Mr. Jackson, flushing to his 
hair, “the lady I saw with the dog was 
not nearly so handsome as this defendant 
— not to be compared with her, though the 
lady with the dog was not at all a bad- 
looking woman!” 

During this description everyone in the 
room noticed that the assistant of the 
District Attorney was leaning over and 
conversing rapidly with his chief. The as- 
sistant seemed to have made a discovery, 
and as the District Attorney listened, his 
face brightened, and he nodded his head 
knowingly. The assistant went out of the 
room for a few minutes,, then returned, 
and again engaged in conversation with 
his chief, all in whispers. 








“I am through with 'this witness for the 
present. Will you cross-examine?” said 
the District Attorney, almost courteously, 
to Counsel for Defence. 

Wainright shook his head. He had no- 
thing to ask, and then at a no-d from the 
District Attorney, the crier called — 

“Miss Carolyn Blaine!” 

Heads were twisted and necks craned 
to see this young woman, bosom friend 
of the defendant, summoned by the Prose- 
cution to help convict her. 

“Are you acquainted with this , defend- 
ant?” 

“I am.” 

How long have you known her?” 

“Over sixteen years.” 

“Where did you first meet her?” 

“At boarding-school.” 

“What sort of a scholar was she?” 

“A very brilliant one!” 

“I mean what was she like as a young 
girl — how were her morals considered?” 

“I don’t know what you mean!” 

“I mean, was she not looked upon as be- 
ing very difi!erent from the other girls of 
her age?” 

“I think she was.” 

“Did she not have peculiar views upon 
the subject of crime, and did she not 
several times shock her teachers by cer- 
tain essays that she wrote, and was she 
not particularly deficient in truthfulness?” 

■ Carolyn Blaine looked at the District At- 
torney scornfully. “If you mean was she 
not peculiarly charitable in her attitude 
toward evil-doers, I will say yes, she was. 
As for her essays and compositions, they 
showed great maturity of mind and she was 
the most strictly honest anc". honourable girl 
in Ihe school.” 

“But is it not true tbat she was partic- 
ularly prone to associate with evil com- 
panions, and has she not always shown a 
disposition, ever since you knew her, to 
make companions of such persons as broke 
moral laws and were given over to crime?” 

The witness looked him. calmly in the 
eyes. “All this is true!” she said. “It was 
also true of Christ!” 

Somewhat disconcerted, the District At- 
torney turned over the leaves of what ap- 
peared to be a statement he held in his 
hand. 

“Has not this defendant often told you 
that she believed everyone was a potential 
thief, a potential murderer? Has sbe not 
often assured you, and others in your pres- 
ence, that she believed herself capable of 
yielding to great temptations, and has she 
not "n this way tried to excuse nearly every 
member of the criminal classes with whom 
she nas been brought into contact?” 

“Let me ask you,” returned the witness, 
“who are the Strong? Are they not always 
those who doubt their own strength? Who 
fall so quickly as those who judge the fall- 
en? Is not strength always given to the 
humble?” 

“Did I ask you to preach a sermon?” 
snapped the District Attorney. 

“No, you didn’t,” retorted the witness 
coolly, “but I saw you needed one!” 

There was a pause, then the Prosecutor 
asked — 

“Do you know this dog as belonging to 
the defendant?” 

“Yes.” 

“Have you often taken him out to walk. 


when you were not accompanied by his mis- i 
tress?” '' 

“Yes.” 

“Did you not, on a certain date, about 
seven months ago, take this dog for a walk^ 

through Washington Square?” ! 

“I may have taken hini there a great many, 
times.” j 

“Did he not on the particular date to: 

which I have referred, and perhaps at other 
times, stop short before Mrs. Herbert’s 1 
house, as though he knew someone inside ' 
that house, and was accustomed to going - 
there, and did you not have great difficulty 
in getting him past that house?” 

Not once dropping her eyes from those of 
her questioner, the witness answered ^ 
calmly — 

“No, he never did!” i 

There was a gasp of astonishment from 
the District Attorney as he suddenly sat 
down. Harrison Wainright was rising to 
cross-examine when Margaret, white to the 
lips, her eyes on Carolyn, drew him back . 
Vvith an excited whisper, “Let her go!,” ' 

Then Carolyn Blaine passed out of the 
vo«Art-room sister to Annette. ' 

CHAPTER XXV 

THE MYSTERIOUS MR. ST. JOHN 
Mary Oallagher, scullery-maid, scrub- 
woman, and doer of odd jobs of a meniaL 
order for Mrs. Flemming, next-door ^ 
neighbour to Mrs. Herbert in Washington 
Square, sat in the witness chair and blink-' 
ed and fidgeted uncomfortably. Miss Gal- 
lagher had prying blue eyes, which, how- 
ever, were not unkindly in their outlook. ^ 
She had a pursed-up mouth that seemed to ■ 
be on the point of whistling; her turn-up ' 
nose had a small smut on it which looked 
for all the world like a dried sprinkle of 
black stove lead; her forearms and wrists 
depended redly from her elbow sleeves; her 
thin hair hung in greasy wisps about her 
ears and over her collar. 

Encouraged by the questioning of the 
District Attorney, Miss Gallagher deposed 
that every morning about nine o’clock' she 
was accustomed either to brush down or I 
scrub the white marble steps of Mrs. Flem- 
ming’s residence, and that often, by way of i 
recreation during that operation, she had 
been in the habit oif examining the steps 
that went up to the front doors of the 
neighbours’ houses on either side of her, in 
order to discover if they were kept as well 
as she kept hers. On such occasions she 
had several times noticed a tall young lady ' 
going up the steps of Mrs. Herbert’s house, i 
and letting herself in with a latch-key. i 
This young lady was very straight and very 
stiff, so it seemed to Miss Gallagher, al- ^ 
though once she actually stopped and 
spoke to Miss' Gallagher, and Miss 
Gallagher noted -that the lady did not 
speak like other ladies who called on her' 
mistress, or for whom she had worked. The- 
lady had come close to the scrub pail andi 
sala — 

“Do you hearthstone the steps In .this 
country? Pray, where do you buy the 
stone?” 

Miss Gallagher did not know what' 
“hearthstonlng” meant, and she so Inform- 
ed the inquisitive lady, who then laughed, 
and said that she now saw the steps were 
marble and would not need to be treated i 
like London steps. With that the lady had 

66 


gone on ana entered Mrs. Herbert’s house. 

; While she had been speaking to Miss Gal- 
j lagher, the lady had worn a veil of heavy 
I chiffon, and had not looked straight into 
! the eyes of Miss Gallagher. She wore also 
! a very large high hat, after the latest fash- 
; ion. Miss Gallagher remembered her as 
I having a pretty complexion and pretty 
i teeth, and she would always remember her 
i voice, but she did not feel that she would 
I know ner again. On this particular morn- 
j ing, it was earlier than usual, it was win- 
j ter and foggy, so it was hard to see just 
i what the lady looked like. No sooner had 
! the lady got into the hall, according to 
; Miss Gallagher, than Mrs. Herbert’s door 
; opened again and another lady rushed out, 

; dressed all in blue, a Russian blouse suit 
j made very full and big, and she wore no 
veil over her small hat. Witness thought 
the two ladies must have passed each other 
in the hall, the one going in, the other go- 
ing out. The lady who came out was now 
in the court-room. Miss Gallagher stop- 
ped for breath, and then pointed to the de- 
fendant. Asked how the lady who went into 
Mrs. Herbert’s was dressed, witness said 
she wore a striped gown, whereat Harrison 
W ainright exclaimed impatiently — 

“The woman must have been an escaped 
convict, but why she wore stripes outside 
of prison is a mystery to me I" 

Thomas MacMahon, a member of the Dis- 
trict Attorney’s staff, was next called. He 
stated that he had just returned from the 
village of Ashburg, Ohio, where he had 
gone to get information of H. St. John, over 
to whom Miss Farrington had endorsed her 
cheques. There was but one bank in the 
village, and he had been told by the casn- 
ier that about two years ago a man, giv- 
ing the name of H. St. John, had come 
to the village and opened an account at the 
bank, depositing two thousand dollars, and 
said that cheques made out to him or en- 
dorsed over to him would be deposited from 
timo to tiiut., and that he would always 
leave a balance of two thousand dollars on 

i hand 

The bank’s business had always been a 
very small one, and they were glad to get 
this new depositor, asking few questions. 
The man offered as reference a Mr. John 
Henderson, a prominent business man of 
Cincinnati, and gave his only address as 
care of Mr. Henderson. The reference had 
not been hunted up, as the stranger’s large 
balance made the matter safe enough. Dur- 
ing the past two years the only deposits 
that had been made were cheques from va- 
riou.s publishing concerns in New York, 

' made out to F. Farrington, endorsed by the 
' same name with addition “Pay to the order 
' of H. St. John.’’ No money had been drawn 
out during this time, so that there were 
■ now several thousand dollars to Mr. St. 
John's credit. Nothing more was known of 
him, and inquiries for Mr. John Henderspn 
' developed the fact that he had retired from 
I business and was now travelling somewhere 
in South .A.merica. None of the cheques 
1 had been sent to the bank now for more 
f than two months 

! The next witness was a man who had 
once seen a ladj’’ wearing a striped gown 
entering Mrs. Herbert’s house. Closely 
questioned, he admitted that he had not 
been able to see the lady’s face, but only 
^her back, as she opened the door with a 
key. 


“I have no cross-examination to make,’’ 
said Harrison Wainright. Then, turning 
to the Judge, he sa.id wearily, “I am won- 
dering, your Honour, how so many persons 
are able to identify this missing woman by 
her back. Has nobody ever seen her face 
distinctly? For my own part, all backs 
look alike to me.’’ 

His Honour slightly turned his face as he 
brought down the gavel, thus interrupting 
the titter of merriment which the sally of 
Counsel for Defence seemed to have start- 
ed, and then the District Attorney called 
the next witness. 

“Miss Helen Morton!’’ 

Miss Morton, dressed all in black, except 
for^ a bunch of violets on her hat and a 
white lace collar at her throat, rustled into 
the witness chair, and confidently awaited 
the District Attorney’s questions. She was 
told to relate what she had seen and heard 
on a certain afternoon in the foregoing Oc- 
tober. 

“I started to go in to see Miss Allison 
to ask her something about the part I 
was playing, when I heard voices in her 
Apartment and decided not to disturb her. 
fn response to something that was said to 
her, I heard her say very bitterly, ‘I 
■iell you I feel a persomal antipathy to the 
very name of the author of this so-called 
most successful book of a decade!’ Then 
again she exclaimed, ‘Now, I’ll make a bold 
attempt to sweep this Frances Fennimore 
Farrington from the earth!’ I was in a 
hurry, and I went away to my own apart- 
ments, returning again to see Miss Allison, 
and just as I knocked I heard her say, 
'Oh, your ladyship!’ as though she were 
threatening someone. Then she walked 
out, dressed for the street, so I could not 
make my call. She seemed in a great hur- 
ry. I wondered to whom she had been 
talking, and asked her if Miss Blaine had 
taken tea with her, and she refused to 
answer me, saying there was no reason 
why I should be interested in her visi- 
tors. Then she hurried away. Her dog 
was with her.’’ 

“I hand you. Miss Morton,’’ said the Dis- 
trict Attorney, “ ‘People’s Exhibit Nos. 7 
and 8,’ and ask if you ever saw them be- 
fore, and under what circumstances.’’ 

'The District Attorney handed the wit- 
ness two trunk checks, such as are issued 
by transfer companies. 

“Yes. I found these hidden away in a 
small secret drawer of the defendant’s 
writing-desk at the Illington.’’ 

'These checks were handed to the jury, 
that they might be compared with the 
checks found on the unclaimed trunks at 
the dock, and they proved to be the iden- 
tical numbers. 

Miss Morton then identified the brown 
broadcloth dress as one she had often 
seen the defendant wearing, and which 
she had got from her apartment at the 
“Illington’’ by the District Attorney’s or- 
ders. 

“People’s Exhibit No. 15’’ was a sheet of 
paper upoin which was scribbled innumer- 
able times the name “Frances Fennimore 
Farrington,’’ and Miss Morton dieposed 
to having found it also in the secret 
drawer of the defendant’s writing-desk. 
He also showed her an old envelope of a 
registered letter on the back of which was 
written, “From J. Henderson, — Street, 
Cincinnati,’’ which she also identified as 

67 


I 


having found in the desk. Then came a 
hundred or more pages of typewritten man- 
uscript. 

“I found this also at the defendant’s 
desk at the Tllington,’ which I seiarched 
hy your orders,” said Miss Morton, ex- 
amining them. 

While the examination of this star wit- 
ness for the Prosecution was going on 
Harrison Wainright watched her very in- 
tently. A part of the time he seemed 
not to be listening to either the questions 
or the answers, but merely to be study- 
ing the w'hole face and figure of the wit- 
ness. Up and down roved his eyes taking 
in her hat, her wrap, her boots, the gloves 
she wore. If he realized that the evi- 
dence she was giving was damming to the 
case of the defence, and that he had no 
way of controverting , her testimony, his 
demeanour showed no signs of agitation. 

W’hen the District Attorney had finished, 
and had, with a show of triumph, directed 
him to proceed with cross-examination, 
Wainright began walking leisurely up 
and down the front of the witness, 
his face taking on an expression of puz- 
zlement, as though he really had nothing 
to ask her. 

‘‘The witness may be excused if Coun- 
sel does not wish to cross-examine,” s-aid 
the Court. 

‘‘Your Honour, I think I have only one 
question to ask this witness, one little 
matter to clear up.” Now W^ainright 
walked up in front of Helen Morton and 
extended his hands. She confronted him 
smilingly. 

‘‘Miss Morton,” he began quietly, ex- 
tending his hands still further toward her, 
and then his voice rose till it pierced the 
uttermost points of the room, becoming 
a shout. ‘ WHERE DID YOU GET THIS 
COAT..?” and his hands grasped the fasten- 
ings down the front and flung .the coat apar.. 
displaying a black satin lining to the outer 
broadcloth. 

His shout was answered by a shriek from 
the witness chair, as Helen Morton fainted. 

Then above the stillness which follow- 
ed the clamour rose the sonorous voice of 
the District Attorney, ‘‘The People rest!” 

CHAPTER XXVI 

THE HYPOTHETICAL QUESTION 
When the District Attorney so suddenly 
and in such extraordinary manner rested 
the case for The People, there were per- 
sons in the courtroom who believed that 
the backbone of The Prosecution was brok- 
en. In certain respects he had acted with- 
out precedent. In the beginning he had 
promised to exhibit a perfect chain of evi- 
• dence to convict the prisoner, and cer- 
tainly some of the links were missing. 

However, Harrison Wainright, who, 
during the few days of this trial, had been 
doing some rapid ‘‘growing up” in a legal 
way, felt sure that the District Attor- 
ney, instead of having less evidence than 
he expected, was putting himself in the 
way of getting more. He was positive that 
the ‘‘rest” was but a temporary one. that 
the move was merely one to gain time, 
that the District Attorney wished particu- 
larly to get into the cross-examination of 
the defendant herself, in order that he 
might put on his more important witnesses 
in rebuttal. Wainright believed that 


among these would' be Harriet Herbert, • 
the young daughter of the lodging-house 
keeper, who must have known that Mar- • 
garet Allison was a frequent caller upon 
Miss Farrington, since her mother had de- 
posed to admitting only one visitor, the 
man who had called shortly before Miss 
Farrington disappeared. Wainright had 
discovered that the District Attorney was 
still searching for this man, whom he, 
Wainright, believed to be the person to 
whom the Englishwoman had made over 
her cheques, and who, being perhaps a 
countryman of hers, had pronounced his 
name ‘‘Sinjun” in English fashion, and had 
been understood by Mrs. Herbert to say 
“Sinton.” 

In opening the case for the defendant, 
Wainright had little to say to the jury. He 
said that she, strong in her own innocence, 
had declined to take counsel, intending to 
conduct her own case, but, he added, that 
having been appointed by the Court, he 
should do his best to look after her in- 
terests, and that his client would take the 
stand in her own defence. 

He then called his first witness. It was 
Dr. Charles Boynton. A slight boyish-look- 
ing fellow came forward to answer the call. 
He blushed as he bowed to the Judge, and 
stationed himself somewhat uncomfortably 
on the edge of the witness chair. 

‘‘What is your age?” asked Wainright. 
“Twenty-four.” 

“What is your profession?” 

“A physician and surgeon.” 

“Of what institution are you a gradu- 
ate?” 

“The New’ York College of Physicians 
and Surgeons.” 

“Are you connected with any hospital at 
the present time?” 

“Yes. I have been at the Bellevue Hospi- 
tal for the past year.” 

“Have you during that time, and also 
previous to going to Bellevue Hospital, ex- 
amined the bodies of persons Who have met 
death by drowning?” 

“I have.” 

“Have you examined a considerable num- 
ber of such bodies?” 

“I have, both as a student at college and 
at the hospital.” 

“Did you see at the Morgue the body said . 
to have been that of Frances Fennimore l 
Farrington?” ■ 

“I did.” 'fl 

“Did vou make an examination of it?” ■ 
“I did.” ■ 

“How w’as it that you happened to mak^ 
this examination?” « 

“I asked to be allowed to make the ex-- 
amination for purposes of study, and per-l 
mission w'as given me to do so.” C 

“Did you at that time have any idea thay 
you would be called by me to give evidenc^ 
In this case?” 

“I did not.” I 

“From the examination which you mad^ 
of that body, are you prepared to give an 
opinion as to the age of the woman?” 

“I am.” i 

“What. In your opinion, w’as her age?” ^ 
“She W’as a w’oman between forty and 
forty-five years of age.” j| 

“Would you then, on that account, doctor? 
be prepared to assert that the body found at 
Pier 56% in the North River could not 
have been the body of Prances Pennimor^ 
Farrington, she having been declared to be 


years of 

That would be one of tbe reasons for 
niy assertion that it was not the body of 
Frances Fenniniore Farrington.” 

Have you, then, another reason to suo- 
port your opinion?” 

“I have.’* 

‘‘VVhat is that reason?” 

short length of time which the body 
I examined had been in the water.” 


How long had the body which you ex- 
amined at the Morgue been in the water?” 

“At the most, it had been there but one 
week.” 


Are you aware that it has been asserted 
by the coroner’s physician, and also by 
another physician who gave evidence in 
this case for The People, that the body had 
. been in the water about five weeks?” 

1 “I am, but I am absolutely positive that 
1 the witnesses made a mistake.” 

“How do you know that the body which 
you examined could not have been in the 
water more than one week?” 

I “Because of the colour of the eyes.” 

“Please explain exactly what you mean 
by that, doctor.” 

“It is a fact, observed by all who have 
examined bodies taken from the water, that 
for every day a body has been in the water 
i the eyes have turned lighter, and, at the end 
of one week, eyes, which during life were 
a black or a dark brown, would have be- 
come as light as hazel. After having re- 
mained more than a week in the water, the 
eyes, getting gradually lighter, would be- 
come blue — a fishy blue — so that there would 
be no possible way of determining what 
colour the eyes had been in life. They 
would turn to this fishy blue no matter 
what their colour in life. An examination 
of the books at the Morgue in which de- 
scriptions of drowned bodies are kept will 
show this — that always after a description 


i which says a body has been in the water 
I more than six or seven days, there is this- 
I note — ‘Eyes, can’t tell.’ ” 

' “What, then, doctor, was the colour of 
j the eyes, of the body you examined at the 
i Morgue?” 

; “They were a hazel, which would mean 
j that a week before, in life, they had been 
a dark brown or black.” 

“You are then prepared to state that the 
( body found near the oyster scow in the 
North River could not possibly have been 
that of Frances Fennimore Farrington?” 

“I object!” snapped the District Attor- 
ney. “That is a matter for the jury to 
decide!’’ 

' “Objection sustained!” said the Court. 

Wainright began again. “It has been 
asserted, doctor, that Frances Fennimore 
I Farrington was a woman not over thirty 
I years of age, so that you are able to say 
positively — are you not? — that such being 
the case, the body could not have been that 
of Frances Fennimore Farrington, it be- 
ing, as you are convinced, the body of a 
woman about forty-five year.s of age?” 

“I object!” again shouted the District 
Attorney, and his objection was sustained 
by the Court, but Wainright had got his 
point before the jury, even though the wit- 
ness was not allowed to answer, and the 
twelve were looking particularly interested. 

Wainright had not yet finished with his 
witness. He went to the counsel table and 


picked up a note, which he read through to 
himself carefully. Then he said— 

Doctor, 1 will now pui to you a hypo- 
thetical question: Assume that this de- 
fendani was, on the 27th day of March 
in her apartment at the Hotel Illington. 
Assume that she was being visited by her 
close friend. Miss Carolyn Blaine. Assume 
that after conversing for some time upon 
various topics, it was proposed that this de- 
fendant and her French poodle dog should 
dance the Minuet for the entertainment of 
her friend. Assume that Miss Blaine 
thereupon sat down to the piano and played 
the music which usually accompanies that 
dance. Assume that this defendant there- 
upon rose from her chair and, calling her 
French poodle to her, took him by the paws 
and began to dance with him the Minu- 
et ’’ 

“Doctor, have you assumed it?” asked 
Wainright solicitously. 

“I have!” answered the young doctor 
solemnly. 

“Assume, then.” went on Wainright, 
“that while Miss Blaine was playing the 
piano, and while this defendant and her 
French poodle were dancing the Minuet, 
there came a knock at the door which this 
defendant did not hear. Assume that, 
turning around in the course of the dance, 
she saw an officer of the court standing in 
the door of her apartment, and that she 
made an exclamation of surprise. Assume 
that when she walked over to him and in- 
quired his business he handed her a war- 
rant for her arrest for the murder of Fran- 
ces Fennimore Farrington. Assume that 
she read it over once; then read it again 
very carefully. Assume that then she did 
not make any exclamation or utter one 
word, but assume that she simply turned 
very red in the face, and afterwards said 
‘Ah!’ or ‘What!’ 

“Have you assumed it. doctor?” asked 
W^ainright anxiously. 

“I have,” returned Doctor Boynton pom 
pously. 

“Then, having assumed all this, I ask 
you, doctor, what, in your opinion as a pro- 
fessional and as a scientific man. Was the 
cause of this defendant turning red in the 
face?” 

“It was the blush of conscious inno- 
cence,” answered. the doctor. 


CHAPTER XXVII 
THE DEFENDANT DENIES 
When Margaret Allison seated herself in 
the witness chair, ready to testify in her 
own defence, her attitude seemed as far 
as possible removed from what one would 
naturally expect to see in a person guilty 
or accused of an atrocious crime. 

The drawn look which had been notice- 
able on her face at the opening of the 
trial had disappeared, and her pink and 
white complexion was aglow with health, 
for she had not yet been long enough in 
the Tombs to be touched by the notorious 
“prison paillor” which marks the waiting 
inhabitants of the place. Her eyes shone 
with a light that appeared to be made up 
of half-amused, half-malicious excitement. 

She was wearing the same smart long 
black silk coat which had covered her 
throughout the trial. Her little toque hat 
was poised as correctly upon her head and 


69 


her C'oiffure was as perfect as though she 
had made her toilette before her dainity 
dressing-table at the “Illington,” with its 
long swinging oval glass, rather than hav- 
ing “made herself pretty” in a dark cell 
without the aid of so much as a hand mir- 
ror. 

She bowed to the Judge, then to the jury, 
giving also a little courtesy bob to the 
District Attorney, and, adjusting her feet 
upon the green-plush cushion which an at- 
tendant had brought at His Honor’s com- 
mand, she sat comfortably back in her 
chair, as though she were about to preside 
at a meeting of one of her clubs. 

“Miss Alilison,” said Harrison Wainright 
solemnly, “although you have at the be- 
ginning of this trial pleaded ‘not guilty’ 
to the charge against you, I now ask you, 
after you have taken the oath, to tell the 
truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the 
truth — Are you guilty of the crime for 
which you have been indicted?” 

“Kindly read the charge,” Siaid the- wit- 
ness, leaning her head toward him with 
something of attention. 

He looked surprised, but carefully and 
slowly read the indictment. 

“Are you. Miss Allison,” repeated Wain- 
right, “guilty of this charge which I have 
just read to you?” 

“Most certainly not!” replied the witness 
scornfully, in some such manner as she 
might have denied an accusation of eating 
peas with a spoon. 

“Miss Allison, I now ask you if you ever 
wont to the house of Mrs. Herbert in 
"Washington Square to call upon the de- 
ceased?” 

“1 did not.” 

“Did you ever ride with the deceased in 
a cab?” 

“I did not.” 

“Did you ever go in the company of the 
deceased to Pier 48 or near Pier 48 of the 
White Star Line?” 

“I did not.” 

“Did you walk with the deceased along 
to the right, past the Wilson, Cunard, and 
other piers in that neighborhood, to Pier 
number 56i/^?” 

“I did not.” 

“Were you ever, either alone or accom- 
panied, at Pier number 56i^?” 

“I never was. I did not know there was 
such a pier in New York until after I was 
arrested and in the Tombs.” 

“Did you ever have any business rela- 
tions with the deceased?” 

“Never.” 

“Did you have any feeling of jealousy, 
professional or otherwise, toward the de- 
ceased ?” 

“No.” 

“Did you in any way regard the deceased 
as a dangerous rival, or even as a rival at 
all?” 

“I certainly never did.” 

“Did you ever threaten to take away the 
life of the deceased, to bring about her 
financial ruin, or to sweep her from the 
face of the earth?” 

“Did you ask if I threatened these things 
against the deceased?” asked the witness 
cautiously. 

“Yes, I asked you that.” 

“Then I say I never did.” 

“Did the deceased ever injure you in any 
way?” 


“She never did.” 

“Did you ever injure herT’ 

“Indeed, no!” 

“Did you know the deceased?” 

“I did not.” 

“Did you ever speak to the deceased?” 

“I did not.” 

“Did you ever see the deceased?” 

“Noit to my knowledge.” 

“Did you ever forge the name of the de- 
ceased?” > 

“I did not.” 

‘Is it true that in any possible way, such 
work as was done by the deceased, affect- 
ed unfavourably the state of your finances, 
or appeared to you so to affect them?” 
“No.” 

‘,‘Had you, in fact, any feeling of enmity 
or of ill-will towards the deceased?” 

“I had not.” 

“Miss Allison, is it true, as your dress- 
maker, Miss O’Callahan, testified on this 
Stand, that she made for you last winter a 
long black broadcloth coat, fitting into the 
back with shirring, having a broad collar 
trimmed with stitched bands of the same 
material, having a belt which was easily 
detachable, the coat falling to your feet 
so that it just touched the ground, and 
lined with white brocaded silk?” 

“Yes, she made me such a coat.” 

“Did you ever wear it?” 

“Yes, a few times.” 

“Is that coat now in your possession, or 
rather was it in your possession at the 
time of your arrest?” 

“It was not.” 

“What became of that coat?” , 

“I gave it away,” and now the witness 
looked angrily at her questioner. 

“To whom did you give it?” 

“I decline to answer!” 

“I insist upon an answer!” said Wain- 
right, steadily looking her in the eyes. 

“I still decline, however!” she replied, 
gazing back. 

“Your Honour,” said Wainright, “it is 
doubtless without precedent that Counsel 
for Defence should have to appeal to the 
Court to force a witness, and that witness 
the defendant, to answer a question. How- 
ever, I beg that your Honour will direct 
this witness to answer me.” 

“Answer the question, madam!” said the 
Court. 

“Your Honour,” said the witness, turn- 
ing to the Judge, “I am conducting my own 
defence, and the Counsel appointed by the 
Court is examining me now only on suf- 
ferance. Is it in accordance with either 
precedent or the law of this state that I 
be obliged to answer this most inconvenient 
question? If so, I ask that your Honour 
excuse me from answering!” 

Wainright looked appealingly to the 
Judge, who gazed searchingly at the de- 
fendant. 

“The Court cannot excuse you! The 
Court directs you to answer the question 
put by Counsel for Defence!” and his Hon- 
our sternly nodded to Wainright to repeat 
the Question. 

“Miss Allison, I ask you to whom did you 
give that coat?” 

The witness hesitated, looking despair- 
ingly at his Honour’s set face, 'and an- 
swered — 

“I gave it to Miss Helen Morton!” 

A smile of triumph came over Wain- 
right’s face, and he looked meaningly at 

70 


the jury, who appeared to be both sur- 
prised and interested. 

Then Wainright paused as though uncer- 
tain how to continue his examination. He 
looked at the District Attorney, whose ex- 
pression was merely one of sneering ac- 
ceptance of this information. Again the 
young attorney remembered that there were 
witnesses to come in rebuttal, but he re- 
membered that he also could call witnesses 
in sur-rebuttal. Now Wainright, as well as 
the District Attorney, was playing a wait- 
ing game. He also had scouts out, per- 
sonal friends of his own who, like the young 
doctor, had volunteered to help him save 
his client in spite of herself. He dreaded 
that she should get into the tigerish 
clutches of the District Attorney, yet • 
strangely enough he turned to that gentle- 
man and said suddenly — 

“Cross-examine I” 

The District Attorney did not begin his 
cross-examination of the defendant until 
after the recess. Just before court opened, 
he went out of the little gate that led to 
the space where the newspaper men and 
women were gathered, and, sitting down 
among them, he was noticed to be chatting 
with various members of the group. As he 
talked he motioned back and forth with a 
pencil, as though to give emphasis to cer- 
tain of his remarks at Which the journalists 
were laughing, and it was observed that 
once or twice he took a paper pad from 
one and another of them, wrote off a few 
words, and passed it back, as though trying 
to give them assistance in their work. 

Then, as at a sign from the clerk it was 
shown that the Judge was about to enter, 
and every one in the room rose, the District 
Attorney swung hastily back into his own 
little pen, with an expectant, anticipating 
look in his eyes, showing that he was 
ready for the fight and felt sure of victory. 
Most cautiously he placed two bottles of 
smelling salts on the table, and a titter 
ran round the room, as it was surmised 
that he intended one for himself and one 
for the witness should she appear to need 
it in passing through the ordeal of his 
questioning. Then he took from the floor 
his ubiquitous brown pig-skin bag and 
placed it on the table. 

He adjusted his glasses, readjusted the 
pencil between the thumb and^ forefinger of 
his right hand, while, with his left, he 
brought forth from the brown bag a little 
black book. 

“Is this your diary?” he asked of the de- 
fendant on the stand. 

“I don’t keep a diary,” replied Margaret. 
“I look upon it as a dangerous practice.” 

“Yes,” said the District Attorney, with 
a meaning smile, “it is sometimes a dan- 
gerous practice. Nevertheless, I think this 
is yours,” and he handed her the little 
black book. 

Margaret examined it with evident sur- 
prise. A smile brightened her eye, then 
a tear dimmed it. 

“Yes, this is my diary,” she said, “the 
diary I kept at boarding-school when I 
was between thirteen and fifteen years old. 
I wonder where you got it. I lost it while 
I was at school.” 

The District Attorney merely smiled. 

“Did you,” he asked, “write the following 
in your diary when you were between the 
tender ages of thirteen and fifteen?” Here 
he proceeded to read slowly and distiimtly 


with his face toward the jury-box — 

“Last night the Juniors gave a perfor- 
mance of the ‘Two Orphans.’ They couldn’t 
act a little bit, but I like the play, es- 
pecially where the Nun tells the big whop- 
per. It was probably the most actively 
righteous thing the poor old Nun ever did 
in her life, and 1 just imagine they had a 
high old time in Heaven fixing up the Rec- 
ord Book. 

“To-day in the French recitation room. 
Miss de Salles asked each one of us to tell 
her in French what we would like to be 
when we grew up. All the girls laughed 
when I said I wanted to be a great writer 
like George Eliot, and Miss de Salles 
laughed too when I said I intended to be 
the very greatest that ever was, and if 
anybody tried to be my rival I’d just make 
her sit up and take notice. 

“I’ve gone and done it — what the nice 
old Nun did in the ‘Two Orphans.’ v Mary 
Blake was just going to be expelled be- 
cause her credit-marks are down to six 
and a half. They got down to that because 
she talked to me from the third storey 
window (though I didn’t answer back), and 
that nasty sneaking Jennie MacLean, with 
her Presbyterian pug nose, heard her and 
went and tattled. Miss de Salles asked me 
if Mary talked to me from the window, 
and I said ‘No, Miss de Salles, she did not!’ 
and I said it awful solemnly, because I 
know about Mary’s wicked stepmother at 
home, who would make her sit among the 
cinders or something if she got expelled 
from school, and Miss de Salles said she 
believed me because I was always strictly 
honourable, and now Mary can stay right 
on, and I’ve told her she’d better toe the 
mark, after I went and told a lie for her. 

“I’ve just been in Adelaide Mayhew’s 
room. None of the other girls will speak 
to her because they say that the most 
awful things are true about her, and her 
mother sent her to school to get her away 
from a wicked man. Carolyn Blaine is 
awful mad because I associate with poor 
Adelaide, who hasn’t anybody else to go 
with, but I just told Carolyn that folks 
that did w^rong attracted me. I think and 
I think about it. and somehow it just * 
seems to me you never can be truly great 
and big and noble and charitable until 
you’ve gone and done a perfectly horrible 
crime or committed a right-down big sin. 
Carolyn says it isn’t so, but I quoted Peter 
to her and the lie he told, and see what 
a saint he became afterwards.” 

The District Attorney threw the book 
back into the bag. “Did you write these 
things?” he asked. 

“I feel pretty sure that I did,” answered 
Margaret, and now her eyes were not merry 
but sad. She had not remembered until 
this morning that the day she had lost her 
diary at boarding-school Jennie MacLean 
had come to her room to get some help 
about an algebra lesson. Had Jennie taken 
it, kept it all these years, and reading in 
some far-off city that Margaret Allison was 
accused of murder, posted it to the Dis- 
trict Attorney to be used against her, to 
pay her up for the disrespectful entry made 
about Jennie’s nose? 

The District Attorney recalled her to the 
present. 

“Some of these things that you wrote 
so long ago you still hold to be good 
doctrine, do you not?” 

71 


“I do, though I should probably express 
the doctrine somewhat differently,” an-, 
swered the defendant, with a smile, where- 
upon the Prosecutor turned triumphantly to 
the jury, as who should pass upon the utter 
depravity^ of this w'oman. 

“I hand you now, ‘People’s Exhibit No. 

19, ’ and ask you if you wrote it?” and he 
passed her an article cut from a w^eekly 
paper. 

‘‘I did.” 

“When did you write it — this flippant ar- 
ticle entitled ‘The Law" as a “Hass” ’?” he 
demanded, f 

“I don’t remember the exact date,” re- 
turned the witness, “but I know it was on 
the evening of the day when I saw" you con- 
duct the case of The People against Con- 
yers,” and his Honour thumped his gavel 
to quell an incipient giggle in the back 
of the room. 

“Your Honour, I venture that this wo- 
man’s flippancy of manner and her cheap 
would-be w"it are turning this solemn trial 
into a farce,” exclaimed the District Attor- 
ney to the Judge. His Honour was chok- 
ing over a fifth glass of water, and made 
no reply. 

“Do you know John Henderson, of Cin- 
cinnati?” shouted the District Attorney, 
almost beside himself with rage. 

. “I do.” 

“What are your relations w"ith him?” 

“Very friendly.” 

‘‘T hand you now ‘People’s Exhibit No. 

20, ’ and ask what was in it w'hen you 
received it.” He handed the witness a 
large envelope which had been registered, 
addressed to her at the Hotel Illington, 
and bearing the address of J. Henderson 
on the back, 

“There was money in it,” answ"ered the 
witness. 

“Did not John Henderson frequently send 
you registered letters containing money?” 

“Yes.” 

“Where did he get it?” 

“By cashing cheques for me w'hich I sent 
to him.” 

“Have you not a bank account in New 
York?” 

“I have.” 

“Was not your bank the proper place for 
you to deposit your cheques or to get them 
cashed?” 

“Yes, in the natural order of things cer- 
tainly, but these were cheques I did not 
want to have go through my bank.” 

“Why not?” 

“They were not made out in my name, 
and they had to do w"ith business that was 
entirely private.” 

“Was that business in any way related to 
the affairs of Frances Fennimore Farring- 
ton?” 

“It was.” 

“Did you not tell your Counsel that you 
did not know" and never had any relations 
with Frances Fennimore Farrington?” cried 
the' Prosecutor triumphantly. 

-“I never did.” 

“You never did w"hat!” 

“I never told Counsel for Defence that 
I did not know' Prances Fennimore Far- 
rington, or that I had no business relations 
with her.” 

“W’hat!” Then the Prosecutor turned to 
the jury and, lifting his eyes to heaven, 
exclaimed, “Oh, Sapphira!” 


He appealed then to the Judge. “Will 
your Honour please have all the testimony 
given by this defendant in the direct ex- 
amination read?” The Court ordered this 
to be done, and the stenographer read it 
off in sing-song fashion. 

“.:\Vhat have you to say to this testimony 
which you have given?” asked the District 
Attorney sternly. 

“Merely that you do not seem to have 
noticed that Counsel for Defence question- 
ed me about ‘the deceased’ in every in- 
stance, and that my replies w"ere in regard 
to the ‘deceased,’ ” answered the defendant 
calmly. 

Here the Judge gave her a searching 
glance from under his heavy brows, turned 
aw"ay, then looked again. 

“Is this denial,' madam,” he asked, “mere- 
ly an expression of your belief that the 
body found in the North River near the 
oyster scow" was not that of Frances Fen- 
nimore Farrington?” 

“Yes, your Honour,” replied the defendant 
respectfully, and the Judge nodded to the 
District Attorney to go on with his ques- 
tioning. 

“We w"ill have no quibbling with words 
now,” said he, with a mocking bow to Har- 
rison Wainright. who was watching his 
client in breathless suspense, 

“Did you know Frances Fennimore Far- 
rington, and did you have any relations of 
any sort w'hatever with Frances Fennimore 
Farrington?” asked the District Attorney 
very slowly, very distinctly. 

“I did.” 

“How- well did you know her?” 

“Very well indeed. I was the closest 
friend she ever had in her life.” 

“Were you not jealous of Frances Fen- 
nimore Farrington?” 

“I w"as.” 

Here the District Attorney dived into the 
pig-skin bag and brought forth a long nar- 
row" parcel, and, unfastening it, he spread 
upon his table a large number of cancelled 
cheques. 

“You say that you sent cheques to John 
Henderson in Cincinnati in order that he 
might cash them for you. Were those 
cheques made out to your name?” he asked. 

“They were not.” 

“To whom w"efe they made out?” 

“To the name of ‘F. Farrington.’ ” 

“Are these the cheques?” and he handed 
the parcel to her, w"hich she examined 
carefully. 

“To the best of my know'ledge and be- 
lief, these are tha cheques,” she answered. 

The District Attorney took back the 
cheques. “Have you examined the backs of 
these cheques and noted that they have 
w'ritten on the backs of them ‘Pay to the 
order of H. St. John’?” 

“I have noticed that.” 

“They have also been re-endorsed, have 
they not, by ‘H. St. John’?” 

“They have.” 

“Yet you have said that you yourself 
sent these cheques to John Henderson in 
order that he might cash them?” asked the 
District Attorney, and now he got out a 
sheet of paper from the pig-skin bag and 
laid it on the table w"ith the cheques. 

“I have so testified,” replied the witness. 

There was now a whispered conversation 
between the District Attorney and his assis- 
tant, who stepped over to one of the hand- 


72 


< 


■vvriting experts who had been on the 
stand. Three cheques and the sheet of paper 
were placed in the expert’s hands, evident- 
ly for his close inspection, and the District 
Attorney said suddenly to the witness — 

“Is this your dress?” He seized the 
brown broadcloth from under the table 
and shook it so that the noise of its rustle 
was heard all over the room. 

“It is my dress,” answered the witness. 

“Did you wear it on the night of Feb- 
ruary 15th?” 

“I did. ^ 

“Did you, wearing this dress, go in a cab 
to call at the house of Mrs. Herbert in 
Washington Square?” 

'“1 did. 

“Did you not then go up to the rooms 
of Frances Fennimore Farrington, and take 
her aWay with you in the same cab to the 
dock of the White Star Line in West Street?” 

“I did go up to the rooms of Frances 
Fennimore Farrington, but she was not 
tnere awaiting me.” 

“Did you not drive in that same cab 
which waited outside for you to Pier 48, or 
thereabouts, at the foot of West Eleventh 
Street?” 

“1 did. 

“Was not Frances Fennimore Farrington 
with you in that cab?” 

“There w'as not a human soul in that 
cab but myself.” 

“W^ord- juggler! Was there, then, a hu- 
man body in that cab with you?” 

“No. And besides, Frances Fennimore 
Farrington could hardly be said to have a 
body.” 

“W’^as the poor woman, then, so thin as 
that, after your persecution of her?” ask- 
ed the District Attorney, in a tone of pity 
for the deceased and of biting sarcasm for 
the living. 

“Yes,” answered the witness confidingly; 
“she was so very thin that I should think 
even you might have seen through her.” 

The District Attorney brushed his hand 
through the air, as though to sweep away 
this reflection on his perspicacity, and he 
began again. 

“W’ere you in Bethune Street in the early 
morning of February 15th?” 

“I w^as.” 

“W’hy did you, before going there from 
the pier, cover up the brown dress you were 
wearing with a long black broadcloth 
coat?” 

“Because I considered my brown dress 
too conspicuous, and I wished to avoid at- 
tention.” 

“When did you give this same black-coat 
to Miss Helen Morton, as you have testi- 
fied?” 

“I gave it to her about the last of Feb- 
ruary.” 

“So it was some time after the disap- 
pear.: r-ce of Frances Farrington that you 
gave Miss Morton the coat?” And now the 
face of the District Attorney was wreathed 
iu sardonic smiles, and that of Harrison 
Wa inright grew tense. 

“Oh, yes.” 

“Did you not give it to Miss Morton be- 
cause you found it an inconvenient thing to 
have about you, and in order to divert sus- 
picion from yourself?” 

“Suspicion of what?” asked the witness. 

“Suspicion of murder!” screamed the 
District Attorney; while the witness an- 
swered quietly — 


“No, I did not wish to divert any suspi- 
cion of anything. I gave the coat to Miss 
Morton because I saw she needed it to wear 
back and forth at night for the theatre 
where she was playing.” 

Now the District Attorney smiled again — 
the smile of perfect security. 

“Did you not meet a man in Bethune 
Street and get into his cab with him?” 

“I did.” 

“Just as you got into the cab with the 
man, did he not say to you, Ts it over?’ ” 

“He did.” 

“Did you not answer, ‘Yes, she is dead’?” 

“I did.” 

“Who was it that you assured him was 
dead?” 

“Mr. District Attorney,” said the wit- 
ness, looking at him intently with unwav- 
ering eyes, “I grant you that the question 
you have now asked me is a most porten- 
tous one, and I say to you that the time 
for asking that question was long ago. It 
should have been asked me. not by you, 
but by the Grand Jury, before whom I had 
supposed you would take 'me before at- 
te'mpting to arrest me! I say it was within 
your discretion, Mr. District Attorney, to 
have asked me to appear before the Grand 
Jury, who could have put to me such ques- 
tions as were necessary to elicit my ex- 
planation before I was indicted.” 

“And what would you have explained?” 
asked the District Attorney, calmly fixing 
the witness with his glasses, and not a 
whit taken aback by this diatribe. 

“I would have explained to the satisfac- 
tion of the Grand Jury that I was not 
guilty of Murder in the first degree!" was 
the cool answer. 

And now every ear in the court-room and 
every eye was strained to attention, for it 
seemed evident that the defendant was 
about to plead to a lesser degree of homi- 
cide or to manslaughter. 

CHAPTER XXVIII 
THE CONFESSION 

The District Attorney picked up one of 
his bottles of smelling salts, walked direct- 
ly in front of the witness, and propounded 
a question. 

“I demand that yon answ'er this ques- 
tion without quibbling. Where were you on 
the many nights when you remained away 
from the Hotel Illington, leaving your dog 
in charge of Annette Lemoyne, and in- 
structing her not to mention the fact of 
your being away all night?” 

“I w'as at the house of Mrs. Herbert in 
Washington Square.” 

“It is false!” shouted the District At- 
torney. 

“I have answered your question ‘without 
quibbling’ as you directed,” returned the 
witness, sitting unconcernedly back in her 
chair. 

Despairingly the District Attorney sat 
down and mopped his brow, and up sprang 
Harrison Wainright. “Miss Allison, if the 
District Attorney has finished his cross- 
examination, I will begin my re-direct. 
Explain to me immediately what you said 
you could have explained to the Grand Jury 
had you been called before them previous to 
your indictment.” 

“Sit down!” The District Attorney was 
again on his feet. “Counsel for Defence 


73 


has no right to interfere at this stage. I 
have not finished my cross-examination, 
nor will I have done so in many hours! 
Let this witness make her explanation to 
me. I now ask you,” he said, turning 
again to the defendant, “what it is you 
would have explained if you had been called 
before the Grand Jury?” 

The witness, inclined her head slightly 
toward the District Attorney and answered 
calmly — 

‘T would have explained that I was but 
guilty of justifiable homicide.” 

A thrill of horror ran through the court- 
room, although it was noticeable that not 
one of' the gentlewomen spectators got up 
to go, and so escape from the details of 
the killing which the defendant now 
seemed to be upon the point of narrating. 
There was a groan from the District At- 
torney, an increasing interest in the atti- 
tude of Harrison Wainright, and another 
sip of water for the Judge before he turned 
again fairly to the left to look keenly at 
the defendant. 

“Go on!^’ commanded the District Attor- 
ney. 

“I would have explained that it was I 
who was responsible for the appearance of 
Frances Fennimore Farrington in this 
country, that I introduced her here, that I 
helped her to win a name, that only through 
me could she live and have her being. In 
a word, that I was her creator! And what 
did she do to me in return for all my kind- 
ness?” 

Here the defendant seemed overcome 
with the memory of the ingratitude of her 
beneficiary, and she drew forth her hand- 
kerchief from her coat-pocket and wiped 
her eyes, then striving after calmness. 

“Yes!” screeched the District Attor- 
ney, “what did this poor unfortunate wo- 
man do to you? I ask you to tell!” 

“Well, not content with what I freely 
gave her, she was\ taking from me all I 
had. I say to you that this foreign woman, 
who, with my own aid, had sprung up sud- 
denly, unheralded, in this my native land, 
endangered my happiness, my liberty, the 
very breath of my literary life! My own 
serious work was rejected, hers was ac- 
cepted, and then she must needs also be- 
come a comedienne. At first I only tried 
to humble her by ruining her reputation, 
but it was useless, for, badly as she finally 
began to write, her stories continued to be 
published. And then I took from her her 
existence, for she had lived too long. 
There was not room for the two of us in 
New York. It came to the point where one 
of us had to die. I decided that the one 
must be Frances Fennimore Farrington! 
But I did not drown her! I merely swept 
her from the face of the literary earth, as 
one of your witnesses once heard me 
threaten to do!” 

The defendant paused under the fierce 
glare of the District Attorney, and through 
the court-room there ran a whisper of — 
“Hypnotism! She was a sort of Svengali 
to another Trilby!” 

“Go on!” commanded the District Attor- 
ney. 

“And now, Mr. District Attorney,” con- 
tinued the witness, “through the zealous 
work of your office I have been brought to 
the Bar of Justice, and I am now ready to 


pay whatever penalty you can find that the 
Statute Books of the State of New York 
prescribe for the crime of killing off one s 
nom de plume ” 

“You mean to say ,” cried Harrison 

Wainright, leaping through the little 

gate. ^ 

“That I myself was Frances Fennimore 

Farrington!” _ 

“Your Honour!” cried the District Attor- 
ney, “I submit to you that this woman 
is demented! I move that your Honour ad- 
journ this court, and appoint a Commis- 
sion in Lunacy to inquire into the 
mind ” 

“Silence!” interrupted his Honour. “The 
Court is most certainly in favour of the 
appointment of a Commission in Lunacy, 
but not to inquire into the mind of this 
defendant!” and with a resounding crash 
of his gavel he glowered at the District 
Attorney. 

“Your Honour!” gasped Harrison Wain- 
right' visions of disbarment for contempt 
floating through his brain, “I beg to assure 

your Honour that I did not know ” 

“Let not Counsel for Defence fear for one 
instant that the Court gives him credit for 
having possessed any intelligence whatso- 
ever!” and down again came the gavel, 
threatening to bring forth sparks and splin- 
ters from the judicial desk. 

The coqrt-room was in an uproar, and 
vainly the Clerk shouted for “Order!” Vain- 
ly his Honour swung his gavel. Excited 
newspaper reporters rushed from the ta- 
bles, each one bent upon getting out to the 
telephone and telegraph-booths to send 
the first news of the amazing disclosure 
to his paper, and within fifteen minutes 
their messages hot from the printing press- 
es, were on the streets in special extras. 

As the reporters rushed out, a crowd 
which the door-keepers had been holding 
at bay now surged in and took whatever 
seats they could find. Margaret on the 
witness stand, looking toward the entrance 
door, saw Carolyn Blaine pushing in, her 
face one broad smile of triumph, as she 
held Annette Lemoyne by the hand; then 
the Little Dominie, and close upon him Sam 
Blackmore. A loving welcome leapt from 
her eyes to his, and then it was as though 
she was pleading with him. There came, 
~ too, the gaunt form of John Henderson, 
and the two men engaged in a hurried 
whispered conversation in which some im- 
portant point seemed to be settled, for im- 
mediately there was the faintest nod from 
Blackmore toward Margaret. Then with a 
look of content she leaned back in her 
chair and waited for the uproar to subside. 

Now, with continuous shouts and thump- 
ings, order was restored. Counsel for The 
People and Counsel for Defence had been 
crushed by the judicial wrath, and the 
Judge and the jury were left to try the 
case. 

“Madam,” said his Honour, bowing to 
the defendant, “will you now tell the story 
of the circumstances which have le^d to 
your present position? The Court and 
the members of the jury will put to you 
such questions as seem necessary during 
your narrative.” 

“Your Honour,” said Margaret, “more 
than four years ago I firet thought of tak- 
ing a pseudonym for certain work of a se- 
rious and high-class nature which my ed- 


74 


itors would not publish. I had made my 
name as a humorist, and because I had so 
become a popular writer, they desired that 
I should continue to wear the cap and bells. 
I knew the other work which they rejected 
was good, although they assured me that 
it was not. So, for a long time I turned 
over in my mind the matter of doing all 
my serious work under another name, but 
I came to no positive decision until about 
two years ago. 

“Your Honour doubtless knows that for 
the past half-dozen years I have been a 
frequent visitor to court-rooms and pris- 
ons in search of local colour for my writ- 
ings. Many things which I have seen and 
heard during these visits long ago convinc- 
ed me that the methods of criminal pro- 
cedure were greatly in need of reform, and 
most especially have I seen that our sys- 
tem of prosecution was a bad one; that 
the District Attorney’s office, instead of try- 
ing always to discover the truth, made it 
merely a business to convict, as though the 
number of convictions, no matter how ob- 
tained, were a matter for congratulation. 
Most especially have I become an opponent 
of circumstantial evidence as a trustworthy 
thing, and I have believed that an absolute- 
ly innocent person could be so entangled in 
a net of circumstances pointing to guilt 
that he might be indicted, tried, convict- 
ed, and imprisoned or electrocuted for a 
crime which he never committed. Between 
two and three years ago certain matters 
concerning the District Attorney’s office 
came to my attention, which strengthened 
this belief of mine, and I tried to think out 
a plan by which I myself might be accused 
of being concerned in the disappearance 
of a person who never existed.’’ 

“You planned all this from the begin- 
ning, then, madam?’’ questioned his Hon- 
our, with darkening brow. 

“Yes, Your Honour, I planned it up to a 
certain point, though I could not plan the 
strange coincidences that came up in the 
meantime. I did not plan to have a body 
found in the North River. I did not plan 
to be actually arrested for murder. I be- 
lieved, however, that I could carry the thing 
out so far that I would be commanded to 
appear before the Grand Jury and tell what 
I knew of the woman who was supposed to 
be missing. 

“When I finally decided to take a nom de 
plume j I remembered that during my visits 
to England I had, without even tr.ving to 
do so, passed as an Englishwoman, and I 
knew that when I so desired I could speak 
with a perfect English intonation. So I 
decided that Frances Fennimore Farrington 
— name I made up of three names of which 
I am very fond — should be an Englishwo- 
man, and I heard of Mrs. Herbert’s lodging 
house. Just at this time, too, I discovered, 
one night in dressing my hair before my 
mirror, that I could make myself look like 
an altogether different person by a change 
in hair dressing, and I knew, of course, as 
every woman knows, that gowns of per- 
pendicular stripes add greatly to one’s ap- 
parent height. I also took the precaution 
to wear false soles nearly an inch thick in- 
side my boots. Then I took lodgings at 
Mrs. Herbert’s, being there a part of the 
time and at my hotel a part of the time. 

“It was an easy matter for me to provide 
myself with long loose coats which I could 
slip on and off easily, and as Miss Far- 


rington I always wore high hats. Fre- 
quently I took advantage of the free dress- 
ing-rooms in the department stores in order 
to make a sudden change of costume. As 
Frances Farrington, a tall Englishwoman, 
I would go in at one door, and within a 
few minutes I emerged at another door, or 
even by the same door, as Margaret Alli- 
son, wearing a blue Russian blouse suit, a 
soft hat which I could easily crush into a 
small parcel with the suit or the long coat, 
and with my hair dressed in an altogether 
different style. 

“As Margaret Allison, sometimes with my 
dog, I went into Mrs. Herbert’s house with 
a latch-key, carefully, of course, and neither 
she nor Harriet ever saw me except as Miss- 
Farrington. It is true that, as Counsel for 
DAf<^nce so aptly suggested, few persons 
seemed to have got a look at Miss Farring- 
ton except at the back, for naturally I con- 
cealed my face as much as possible in en- 
tering or going out of the house. But one 
morning, in a spirit of fun, I did venture 
to speak to Mary Gallagher, the scullery- 
maid in the next house. I wore a heavy 
veil, and it was foggy, and I am sure she 
could not get a distinct view of my face. 

“In regard to my literary aspirations, my 
plan succeeded perfectly, as Your Honour is 
aware. I made Frances Fennimore Farring- 
ton known first as a writer of serious 
stories, then of a book, then a play. I 
also, after a sort of challenge that was given 
to me at a garden party, sent out some 
humorous stories under the name of Far- 
rington, and thus gave rise to the gossip 
that Miss Farrington was even making a 
name in my own original field, which led to 
the accusation that I was jealous of her. 

“Finally, after two years, I decided that 
she had lived long enough, most especially 
as I was now about to be married, and had 
been recognized as myself by my fianc6, 
who went to call on the supposed English- 
woman, in order to transact some business 
with her.’’ 

Here the defendant’s eyes lighted up mis- 
chievously, and rested for an instant on the 
twitching face of her lover in the back of 
the room, for he was one who could enjoy 
a joke against himself. No one in the room 
noted the interchange of looks, and the 
Court addressed the witness. 

“You left Mrs. Herbert’s house about mid- 
night of February 15th, did you not, in- 
tending to sail for England?’’ 

“No, Your Honour, I gave Mrs. Herbert 
that impression, but I planned to leave my 
trunks at the dock, to see what action the 
authorities would take w’hen it was dis- 
covered they had not been claimed.” 

“You then wmre the brown dress which 
you have identified as yours, and went to 
the dock in a cab?” asked one of the 
jurors. 

“Yes.” 

“But you said there was nobody in the 
cab but yourself, and yet the cabman swore 
he heard talking!” protested the juror. 

“I said there was no other human soul 
or body in the cab,” smiled the defendant. 
“My dog was in the cab. I had left him in 
my rooms at Mrs. Herbert’s,, and Inokad tha 
door, telling him not to maae tue suguiusc 
noise, and he understood perfectly, for he 
had often been there before when he had 
to keep quiet. He jumped into the cab 
before the cabman, who was half asleep and 
half drunk, had aroused himself. In the 
cab I spoke to the dog, accusing him of 


‘cupboard love’ because he was very affec- 
tionate, while I suspected him of having 
designs on a small package of candies 1 
had in my purse.” 

With a grin, the inquiring juror settled 
back in the sixth chair of the box, and up 
rose the District Attorney, with v/hite, set 
face. 

“Is it over?” “Yes, she is dead!” he 
quoted in challenging tones. “What was 
over, and who was dead?’’ 

Now the defendant hesitated. The merry 
look left her eyes, as she answered softly — 

“The little sister of Peter Dennison was 
dead, little Mamie, who suffered with hip 
disease, yet whom I could always brighten 
up by taking my dog to her, for she loved 
to see him doing his tricks. I got an urgent 
message telling me she was crying for me 
and Captain Jinks, and as soon as possible 
I went there in Bethune Street, getting out 
of the cab at Pier 48. But it was all over 
when I arrived. She was dead, and, not to 
disturb her family, I went outside and 
waited for my fiance, to whom I had given 
the address where he would find me, telling 
him the circumstances.” 

“You appear to meet your fiance at 
strange hours, one o’clock in the morning!” 
sneered the District Attorney. 

“He was going away on a ship that morn- 
ing, and it was my only opportunity to bid 
him good-bye.” 

“Who is this fiance!” shouted the District 
Attorney. 

Margaret gave a terrified look of appeal 
toward the back of the room, for she saw 
her lover’s face turn white. Henderson’s 
hand went on his shoulder to detain him 
in his seat. Then Margaret said some- 
thing to the Judge in a whisper. ' 

“Mr. District Attorney,” said the Court, 
“the defendant is excused from answer- 
ing your question.” 

“Who is ‘H. St. John’?” asked Juror 
number 4. 

“My friend Mr. John Henderson, who has 
known me since I was a schoolgirl, took 
that name for the purpose of arranging a 
place of deposit for my checks. It was 
something of a joke, as he has always been 
known among his intimate friends as ‘Saint 
John.’ He went through a form which 
gave him a certificate to carry on business 
as Henderson St. John, or H. St. John. 
The detective sent to Ohio might have 
found such a record in the court house at 
Cincinnati.” 

Now the defendant did not look toward 
the back of the room,, and no one suspected 
that her accessory was among her audi- 
tors. 

Juror number 10 rose. He was Martin 
Ellsworth Cummings, of grave demeanor 
and courtly bearing. “I would like to in- 
quire, Miss Allison,” he said, “if you took 
your friend, Miss Blaine, into your confi- 
dence concerning your nom de plume?” He 
looked straight into Margaret’s eyes, as 
though much depended upon her answer. 

“No,” she replied, “Miss Blaine knew no- 
thing about it. I took no one into my con- 
fidence except Mr. Henderson.” 

“Ah! Thank you. Miss Allison!” said 
Cummings, as though the assurance had 
comforted him, and his eyes, roving over 
the court room, rested on Carolyn in a look 
of understanding comradeship. 


“That body. Madam! That body found 
near the oyster scow!” exclaimed Juror 
number 3 excitedly. “You cannot explain 
that away! The same dress, the same hat, 
the same underwear!” 

“Yes, Madam!” Now His Honour looked 
at her half kindly, half sternly. “W'hat do 
you know of the body?” 

“Your Honour, I did not know a body 
had been found until after I was arrested 
and lodged in prison. By the orders of the 
District Attorney the news was held back 
from the newspapers for twenty-four hours. 
I first knew of it when a special extra of 
the evening paper was handed to me in the 
Tombs, and late that night another special 
extra of one of the papers announced that 
on reading the account I had turned sick 
and had almost fainted, the supposition be- 
ing that all this was because of my guilt. I 
did turn sick and faint at the knowledge 
that such a body had been found, because 
at once I believed it must be the body of 
Marie 'Dupont, a friend of Annette Le- 
moyne, and ” 

A piercing cry rang through the room 
coming from the direction of the farthest 
window, 

“Marie! Eet ees poor Marie, Mr. Judge! 
She must kill her poor self for that bad 
man!” and the face of Annette w'as buried 
in Caroiyn Blaine’s lap. 

“Your Honour,” continued Margaret chok- 
ingly, “I can only tell you that a little 
over a week before I was arrested, I gave 
to Annette Lemoyne the striped dress, the 
hat, the shoes, the underwear, which I had 
taken off at the Illington, when I changed 
for the brown broadcloth, because she told 
me of a friend of hers who was quite desti- 
tute, all her clothing having been kept by 
a boarding-house keeper because she could 
not pay her board. I should be inclined to 
think that she may have committed suicide, 
but I know nothing more than this. 
On the morning of the day of my arrest, 
Annette Lemoyne told me that her friend 
had disappeared, and it was my intention to 
try to trace her. Had I known of the 
finding of this body before my arrest, I 
would have given such information as I had 
to the authorities, and I would have ex- 
plained then the mystery of Frances Far- 
rington. 

“But, Your Honour, this was kept from 
me.' When I read of it at the Tombs, for 
a moment I was tempted to tell what I 
knew, and to explain my own position, and 
then I resolved that I would not. I saw 
that here was my opportunity to show to 
the world what a damning thing circum- 
stantial evidence could be. I could not do 
the poor creature any good then by dis- 
closing what I knew or wl^at I suspected, 
but I might do humanity good by awaiting 
the results of the District Attorney’s mis- 
placed zeal.” 

Now she rose, forgetting that she was ad- 
dressing His Honour, and her eyes swept 
the room, resting scornfully upon the Dis- 
trict Attorne,?. 

“Circumstantial evidence! See what it 
has done! A chain, a perfect chain of it 
was promised to you. Gentlemen of the 
Jury, by this learned District Attorney, a 
chain that should convict me of the crime 
of murdering — deliberately, cruelly — a wo- 
man who never existed! A spy is set upon 

76 


me to invade the privacy of my home; old- 
time enemies are hunted up; the history 
of my pet dog investigated, as if that were 
of the slightest importance; the records 
of my childhood days brought forth, to 
show that as a babbling schoolgirl I was 
groping after truth; a mangled body is 
found in the North River, wearing a dress 
such as another woman was said to have 
worn, and underclothes that can be bought 
in Paris by the scores and hundreds! Medi- 
cal experts differing concerning the age 
of that woman with a difference of twenty 
years, for between the ages of twenty-five 
and forty-five years there are circumstances 
under w'hich the highest science is help- 
less and can give no certainty as to age! 
The Coroner says she was in the water five 
weeks, yet her eyes were hazel after those 
five weeks — a scientific impossibility, as 
the ambitious young doctor from Bellevue 
bravely told you! If this dead woman was 
Marie Dupont, she could not have been in 
the water more than a week. Ah! But 
Frances Fennimore Farrington was sup- 
posed to have disappeared on February 
15th, so the Prosecution in its wisdom in- 
fluences the mind of the Coroner’s Physi- 
cian to such an extent that perhaps he 
actually believes that the time has been 
five weeks! I turn red in- the face when 
I am arrested — from suppressed laughter 
at the absurdity of the thing — and it is 
taken as an evidence of my guilt! Yet, at 
the time of my arrest, the only important 
thing that was done or said was entirely 
overlooked and misunderstood by the officer 
making the arrest. Right close at my side 
was this pet dog, this trick, pick-pocket 
dog, who has learned to obey my slightest 
command at the word ‘Three!’ in four dif- 
ferent languages, and into this dog’s mouth 
I forced two scraps of paper which I took 
from the bosom of my dress while the offi- 
cer stood there — a letter which I did not 
wish to be found when I was searched, as 
I knew I would be. before my entrance to 
the Tombs. ‘Trois!’ was what I said, in- 
stead of ‘Ah!’ or ‘What!’ as the officer re- 
ported, and my pick-pocket dog ate up that 
letter, which might have been a most in- 
criminating document! Oh, the careless- 
ness of your emissaries, Mr. District At- 
torney! ‘A digestive tablet to her dog!’ 
said you in your eloquent address to the 
jury! Yes, Mr. District Attorney, for he 
was not used to such diet as that!” 

Now a smile played upon the face of the 
defendant, as she sat down breathless — a 
smile which communicated itself to the 
whole room and broadened almost into a 
chuckle. With crimson face the District 
Attorney rose. 

‘‘Your Honour,” he said, with shaking 
voice, ‘‘if this defendant is, os she has said, 
herself Frances Fennimore Farrington, how 
is it that Mrs. Herbert, when in this court- 
room, did not recognize her as her late 
lodger?” ^ 

‘‘Let the defendant answer you!” and the 
Judge bowed to her. 

‘‘The District Attorney forgets that Mrs 
Herbert mistook the broad ruler which 
Counsel held up to her for a lead-pencil. 
Mrs. Herbert is very near-sighted,” an- 
swered the defendant. 

‘‘Let Mrs. Herbert be brought into the 
court-room, close to the defendant!” com- 
manded His Honour. 

Suddenly Margaret threw from her shoul- 
ders the long black silk coat which she had 


been wearing throughout the trial; then 
she ducked her head, feverishly pulling 
out tortoise-shell hair-pins; then, with a 
deft twist of her fingers, she built up coil 
upon coil of her auburn hair till her coif- 
fure towered hillock upon hillock, ascend- 
ing mountain-like. Over her forehead she 
pulled some stray locks of hair, bang-wise, 
and as Mrs. Herbert was led into the court- 
room, there stood a lady tall of stature, 
with hair dressed beautifully high, though 
somewhat unbecomingly, clothed in a strip- 
ed gown. Close to this lady now they led 
Mrs. Herbert, until she might touch her 
hand. 

‘‘Look at this lady, Mrs. Herbert. Do 
you know her?” asked the Judge. 

” ’Er Ladyship!” cried Mrs. Herbert, 
falling back into the arms of the attendant 
who had led her in. 

Now his Honour looked again at the de- 
fendant, and his face was sternly kind, as 
he sat there cherub-like, the flowing 
sleeves of his silk gown spread out like 
wings, protective-wise. Then lightning 
flashed from his eyes, which, travelling 
toward the District Attorney, struck that 
gentleman dumb. 

‘‘The prisoner is discharged!” 

‘‘But, your Honour, my dog!” cried Mar- 
garet. ‘‘They will try to keep him here and 
wind him up in yards of red tape.” 

‘‘Let this lady’s dog be brought in the 
court-room and delivered over to her,” and 
down thumped the gavel again. 

And now bounded into the court-room 
Captain Jinks, leaping lightly over the 
gate-barrier and springing toward his lady. 
A pat, a caressing whisper, ‘‘We are going 

now. Captain Jinks” But what was that? 

The dog pricked up his long black curly 
ears, then jumped away from the chair 
where sat his lady, to the centre of the 
fenced-off enclosure — to Captain Jinks the 
ring, the circus ring; and now he bowed to 
his lady, to the judge and the jury, as in 
through the open window from the street 
below there wheezed some laboured notes, 
yet tuneful, ground from a hand-organ by 
an Italian: — 

‘‘I am Captain Jinks of the horse marines.” 

Captain Jinks put forward his left paw, 
then his right, and marched solemnly the 
length of the enclosure four-footed; then 
up on his hind legs, gradually, gracefully, 
he rose, and back and forth he walked in 
time with the_music, which came to him so 
plainly and bade him do his favourite 
‘‘turn.” Now' he began dancing, touching 
his top-knot with his paw, then paraded 
full dress. 

He got through the first verse as he re- 
membered it. He had shown in pantomime 
some of the gallantries of the gay captain 
in the army. There was a pause in the 
music from below, and Captain Jinks paused 
also. Again the organ piped up, and he 
began to illus^trate another verse. He show- 
ed how ‘‘tailor’s bills came in so fast” and 
how ‘‘mama she cried,” and then he hesi- 
tated, looking about inquiringly at judge 
and jury, counsel and reporters. Then his 
soft brown eyes gazed reproachfully at his 
lady, saying ‘‘You must remember that here 
is where I need the cigar.” Hopefully he 
marched over to the District Attorney, who 
stood disconsolately twirling a long slip 
of cardboard in his hand. ‘‘Wuff! Wuff!” 
said Captain Jinks. But was ever gentle- 
man so inattentive to the wants of his en- 
tertainer? Captain Jinks brought his nose 

77 


I 

close to the twirling cardboard, then his 
teeth closed over it. 

Again up rose Captain Jinks triumphant. 
He had his cigar. He clasped his paws 
tightly over his chest, as puff-puff went his 
mouth over the long cardboard labelled 
“Exhibit A,” and thus he illustrated the 
final acts in the history of his celebrated 
namesake. 

The organ-grinder went his way, the 
“turn” was over, and Captain Jinks bowed 
to his audience, all of whom, including His 
Honour himself, had forgotten court de- 
corum. The Judge had stood up, the better 
to watch the performance, unconsciously 
beating time with his forefinger, his great 
form shaking with laughter at this entire- 
ly appropriate ending to what the District 
Attorney had termed a farce. In such case 
there could be no order, and though court 
was not yet formally adjourned, the crowd 
began surging out of the, doors, for it had 
become known that Harrison Wainright 
had, by a smart manoeuvre, got Margaret 
Allison and her dog into a private room, 
where they were joined by Sam Blackmore, 
and hurried in a motor-car to the home of 
the Little Dominie, who had gone on be- 
fore. 

Regardless of rules and ordinary pro- 
cedure, the men in the jury-box chatted to- 
gether, giving their various opinions. 

“A purely primeval woman!” said the 
foreman. 

“Primeval ! I should call her mightily up 
to date! A woman with a noble work to 
do, and she’s done it against fierce odds!” 

“What work?” 


“Why, to clean up the District Attorney’s 
office. It’s needed sweeping for years. Gad! 
The learned Prosecutor seems to have dis- 
appeared, hasn’t he? He’ll resign now, since 
she’s proven her contention that the Law’s 
a Hass! He’ll give up his ambitions for 
a judgeship, too, that’s sure!” 

“A great woman, great and good!” re-, 
marked Juror No. 3 again. “She forgot 
herself and worked for humanity’s sake — 
to show that circumstantial evidence was 
no evidence at all.” 

“Humanity nothing! She was just a she- 
bear defending her cub!” 

“It wasn’t even defence,” said Juror No. 
6. “It was revenge, downright feminine 
spite !” 

“Yes,” piped Juror No, 8, “it was to pay 
up the District Attorney for trying to in- 
dict the mining engineer, Blackmore, two 
years ago. It seems they were engaged 
then, and had to put off their marriage on 
account of it.” 

“Gentlemen,” said Ellsworth Cummings, 
gravely, “a motive is never simple. It is 
always complex, and only God can separate 
it into its component parts. Therefore, 
let us render our verdict that the mystery 
of Frances Farrington remains a mystery, 
and that it is deeper than ever before!” 

And now the Judge passed out, and there 
came the voice of the Crier — 

“Hear ye! Hear ye! All persons hav- 
ing business with Part I Supreme Court, 
held in and for the City and County and 
the State of New York, may now_ depart! 
This Court stands adjourned until ten thir- 
ty o’clock tp-morrow morning!” 


THE END. 


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